L'Homme Du Temps
by Idonquixote
Summary: After an incident Raoul de Chagny never thought possible, he finds himself thrown back in time and making the acquantaince of a very odd boy who claims his name is Erik.
1. Chapter 1

**This is another experimental piece. Hopefully, it's not too "implausible" (but I still think this has a higher chance of happening than the events in LND). Anyway, thank you very much for clicking and I hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Phantom of the Opera"**

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><p>Erik is dead.<p>

Oh, how simple those words sounded! How easy it would be if they were just words on paper. Raoul le Comte De Chagny, watched helplessly as his wife sobbed into his arms. Relief? Anger? Sorrow? Everything?

"Christine, dearest," he repeated softly, hugging her to his chest. If only he could take her pain! If only he could take all of it!

"I must, oh, Raoul! I must, I- I!" she cried, pressing herself against him.

"I'm terrible, Raoul! I'm terrible!"

His heart felt as if it would burst out of his chest. How could she not see how her suffering was paining him? Two weeks had passed with these self insults, this constant sobbing, this misplaced guilt.

"I need to go- but I cannot!" she moaned, "I cannot go back!"

How frail she was! How sickly she was becoming each day, the pallor, the bags below her eyes.

"Raoul- I cannot even do that for a dead man!"

How many doctors he had invited, how long she slept, it made no difference! No avail. He never knew how it felt to hate another so much then! How he hated that monster, for all the pain he had put him through, put Christine through, for the death of his beloved brother, for torturing them even through death! If he could turn back time, he would stop Christine from going back to the cellars, he would kill the ghost himself, he would stop it all from happening- if only!

"I'm horrible, horrible!"

"No, no, no, your'e not! You're an angel, Christine, an angel through and through!"

The anguish would not leave.

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><p>The young man kept his eyes downcast as he made his way pass the various displays, attractions, and stands. How ironic life was- a few months earlier, he would never even have considered coming to a place like this! The humiliation of being discovered was enough.<p>

But Raoul De Chagny would do anything for Christine Daae. Anything at all.

Swallowing his pride, the noble marched into the tent of _The Amazing Madame_. He was truly desperate for assistance- if science had failed him, then perhaps magic could compensate.

The inside of the tent was not as showy as he had expected it to be. There was nothing but a stark wooden table and a small old woman in a rocking chair, her eyes closed, hair in a ragged turban, mouth open in a strange hum.

"Pardon me."

The woman took no notice. Raoul felt a strange sense of discomfort as the dim candles flickered beside them. She raised her arms, jewlery dangling, stretched her gnarled hands, and brought them back down. Her eyes opened to slits.

"You seek the Amazing Madame, yes?"

The comte nodded.

"Come here, lad, and let me tell your fortune."

"Madame, I'm not here to read my fortune."

She looked at him expectantly. Holding back a sigh, Raoul walked up to the Madame and stood before her. She asked for his palm and he obeyed. A sharp prick of pain made him hiss and pull back, cradling the hand in shock.

"My word!"

Blood dripped from the cut in his palm onto the shabby table. The young man clutched at the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. The pain increased, and Raoul stumbled. He had been cut in the hand before and he knew that what he felt- that was not the sensation.

"What did you do!"

The Madame ignored him, continuing to inspect the needle that she had pricked his palm with. Sticking it into her own palm, she began to hum again, leaving the comte staring incredulously.

"_Dear boy, handsome boy, noble boy, kind boy_," she sang ,"_you are in pain, yes? Pain for your love? For that sweet girl? Yes, yes, she is in trouble, yes? An old enemy haunts you through death, yes? Yes, yes_."

The pain spread through his arm. Raoul sank to his knees, gasping.

"_You wish to save your beloved, yes? You are rich. I know you will pay me handsomely_."

He shouted at her to stop. She continued to sing, the voice in his ears, inside his body, everywhere. He was drowning in her horrid song!

"_So I will help you. This spell, this spell is what you seek, yes? Yes, yes, yes._.."

The voice distorted and changed, a parade of a devilish massacre of music. It beat at his ears, pressed him down. The strange, unintelligible language she used, it swallowed him up. He shut his eyes.

"-op-sss-su-siope-onnnnnn-opso-"

Odd syllables mixed and melded. The pain was everywhere.

The last thing he heard was the rustling of leaves. Then nothing at all.

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><p>"Monsieur!"<p>

_"You're so incompetent, Raoul," Phillipe chastised as he dusted the boy's trousers._

_"I'm sorry."_

_"You could have been killed!"_

_"I- I'm sorry."_

_Phillipe relented, gaze softening. He sighed._

_"It's not your fault," he replied, before adding, "I suppose."_

_"Horses don't like me."_

_"Everyone likes you, Raoul. Don't bother about animals."_

_Raoul held onto his brother's hand._

_"Phillipe, my ankle."_

_Sighing, Phillipe picked up the younger De Chagny and placed him on the horse's saddle._

_"Don't fall off this time."_

"Monsieur!"

Raoul's lids fluttered open. Several shapes floated in front of him. His eyes struggled to make sense of it all. The blurry things came into focus. Trees surrounded him, dark and foreboding in the night.

Where was Phillipe? The horses?

His eyes widened. Phillipe was dead! He remembered the madwoman from the fair! Amazing Madame indeed! She ought to be arrested. A distinctly human shape was huddled in front of him.

"Monsieur, please- you can't be here!" it whispered.

The voice of a young boy. Raoul's vision adjusted more. Yes, they were in a forest. Had the fair left after he passed out?

"Monsieur, leave now!"

The child's face was surprisingly pale and the comte quickly realized why: it was not his face at all. It was a mask. Was this one of the children that had gotten lost at the fair? But there was something about the boy's eyes, something that troubled him.

"Where am I?" Raoul asked.

"A gypsy camp- now go!"

"What happened to the fair?"

"It's over. Go now, before my master comes back."

Golden eyes. Almost the same as...

"Where are your parents? Surely they would not leave you here alone."

The boy seemed to jolt from shock. Such a peculiar child.

"I- I thought you were at the fair, monsieur."

"I was."

"Then how can you not know me?"

A very peculiar child. Raoul furrowed his eyebrows. "How could I have known you?"

"I am the main attraction."

"I- I don't understand."

"I am the Living Corpse."

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><p><strong>Dun dun dun! Again, I hope this entertained you, and feel free to review<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the reviews everyone! And to answer a question, this Erik is not based on a particular phantom but he's a mix of Leroux and Kay. I was originally going to add in some ALW but decided against it. Now here's the second chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.**

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><p><em>The living corpse<em>. Oh, the nerve of that child! Raoul felt his whole body tense. The nerve. How dare he use that name so casually?

"Did anyone ever tell you, boy, it's terrible to make light of other's suffering?" he all but hissed.

The child seemed to raise a brow behind the mask. Raoul sat up, head swimming, knees numb, and hand throbbing. And how did news spread so fast? There was not a soul alive in Paris that knew who the opera ghost really was! The comte never told, neither did Christine, unless-

_The Persian! I'll have a fine word with him! A keeper of secrets he is not!_

"Monsieur, there's a path through the forest. It will lead you back to the road."

"And what of an apology?"

"For what?" the boy said quickly, turning his head toward the vast amount of trees.

For what? Raoul's gaped. If he had been right about the Persian spreading gossip, then was the child so rude as to fake ignorance- of the incident at the opera house, of the tragedy that had befallen Phillipe le Comte De Chagny, of the monster behind it all?

"Monsieur, please. Come with me. The path is that way."

The boy was grabbing his sleeve, voice strained and eyes darting frantically at imaginary enemies.

"For whatever it is I've done, I'm sorry. Now come."

"Wait! Where's the amazing madame?"

"W- who?"

"The Amazing Madame! This is where her tent is!"

The boy looked at him as if he was a madman. He gestured at the tent behind them. "That is my tent."

Raoul strained his eyes. They were adjusting to the dark and what he saw made his blood run cold. _The Living Corpse_ was clearly painted onto a makeshift sign hanging above the tent's entrance.

"I hear him," the boy whispered, "Come with me, now."

The young man cast him a questioning look. He could hear nothing but the wind and movement of branches.

"What is going on- "

Quite abruptly, the boy pushed him down with surprising strength. They fell behind a small tree. "Go," he ordered lowly before scrambling to his feet and rushing to the other side of the bark.

Raoul was about to shout in protest but was cut off by a louder, angrier voice.

"Where were you?" it boomed.

"Nowhere."

"Scamp- how do you explain this?"

"I thought we were leaving tomorrow. I packed early."

The comte pressed his body against the bark. This must be the master the boy had mentioned. He winced as a loud crack filled the air.

"Liar!"

Several more unpleasant noises entered his ears. They sounded familiar, like the sound of a coachman cracking his whip, of a schoolmaster beating his students. Panic seized him.

"Damn brat!"

The noises were followed by a loud cry. The villain! Raoul didn't need to see what was happening to know. He knew exactly what was happening. Fists clenched, he left his spot and marched toward the forms before him.

In spite of the darkness, he could make out the shape of a short large man standing over the shape of the thin masked child, a whip between them. The boy coughed and sputtered on the ground, curled into a feral ball. The man raised his hand to strike.

"Stop!" Raoul shouted.

The man's drunken eyes turned on him, wide and stunned.

"You are?" he asked, caught by surprise.

"Le comte De Chagny." Raoul resisted the urge to gulp- he was unarmed and a man not above torturing a child would certainly have no qualms with murdering another.

"C- comte?"

"Yes. That's what I said, wasn't it."

The man slapped his thigh and barked with laughter. Insulted, Raoul approached him.

"Now, you listen here, _comte_. I'm not an idiot- no aristocrats in their right mind would be here at this time of night."

"Perhaps I'm the first."

The idiocy of his reply! The young man wanted to dig a hole in the earth and disappear.

"Then prove it, comte."

Glaring down at the greasy-faced man, Raoul reached into his pockets and pulled out a sack of coins. He opened it. And almost with supernatural speed, the man rushed foward and nearly stuck his nose into the sack.

"I seem to be rich enough," Raoul commented dryly.

His words were met with a blow to the face. Stumbling backwards, Raoul dropped the sack. The man grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him down to meet his furious eyes.

"You really think I'm an idiot, don't you, _comte_?"

"What is the meaning of this!"

"This money of yours couldn't buy food for a dog! There's nothing in the sack!"

Bewildered, Raoul trained his gaze on the fallen sack. The man had not lied; there was indeed nothing from it. But how? He had clearly brought a durable amount of money with him before leaving the house.

"Monsieur, why didn't you leave?" the boy wheezed.

"Shut up!" his master barked, kicking the boy in the side.

Raoul pounced on the man, sending them both tumbling on the dirt, and delivering blow after blow upon one another. It wasn't long before the man, red in the face, and exhausted from intoxication and physical effort collapsed on the ground.

Ignoring the pain in his hand and the rapidly forming bruise on his cheek, the comte stooped before the boy, panting and covered in sweat. The boy's already ragged shirt was torn and stained with blood.

"Was that-?"

"Yes, that was my master. You should not have told him about your money."

Raoul noticed the drops of blood trickling down the child's uncovered chin. Christine would have had a fit if she was with him. He only hoped that she would be well enough to become a mother one day. The boy continued speaking, labored from pain.

"Monsieur, he was... going to rob you with... or without it. If he had found you before me... even the clothes on your back would be gone."

"But where is my money?"

"How should I know? I wish I could say I robbed you first... and that the money is with me... but that is not the case, comte."

Before the young man could reply, he found himself surrounded by several lanterns and next to each lantern, was a gypsy. They did not look pleased with him. Oh, he would most definitely have the amazing Madame arrested after this!

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><p><strong>And there you go. Hope you liked that and feel free to review!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, this hasn't been updated in forever! But for those of you interested, here it is. Please read and review.**

**On a side note, about Raoul's money, I had planned to use minting dates previously. But I decided to add a bit more "magical realism" to the story by having the coins disappear altogether. It'll be explained later on. Just not in the first chapters.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera.**

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><p>Le Comte De Chagny could not decide which was worse- being trapped in the opera ghost's torture chamber or being surrounded by a tribe of angry gypsies. It was a difficult decision. One of them, a stocky tan fellow, approached him, holding a rusty lamp which shook as he walked.<p>

"Who are you and why are you here?" the man asked bluntly in slightly accented French, his tone bitter.

"I am le comte De Chagny," Raoul answered with more confidence than he felt, "and I am here because of the Amazing Madame, who has caused me much grievance. Where is she?"

A collective murmur of whispers broke out among the crowd. Someone laughed.

Raoul caught the words "Le comte De Chagny, he says, De Chagny, I'm the emperor of France then" mixed with their native tongue. He felt his cheeks turn red with indignation. The disrespect! Perhaps they wouldn't be laughing so hard when the gendarmes arrive.

"I am le comte De Chagny!" he restated. The peals of laughter grew.

The man grasped his arm tightly. Raoul struggled to shake him off before another man gripped him.

"Unhand me! Brutes!"

"I think he might be serious, this one," the other man said, amused.

"Of course I'm serious!"

They shoved him hard. "Le comte De Chagny- he came to the fair two days ago an' a generous customer he was," the gypsy announced, "don't lie to us."

"I came to the fair yesterday!"

The laughter continued. More men surrounded him, their forms dimly lit by the lamps. One told him quietly "the comte must be at least thirty. You, you look barely over twenty years."

Raoul felt a comment die on his tongue. There was something about the gypsy's voice, something grave and serious that told him he was not being lied to. That somehow there was more than madness going on. There was an impersonator. There had to be.

"You're mad," he said. He looked at the crowd. "You're all mad. You're all mad."

"You're all mad! You're- "

"There's only one madman here."

It was the grave fellow again, the one with the sharp cheekbones and deepset eyes. Something about his demeanor told Raoul that he did not tell lies. The young comte could only gape as the crowd began to speak amongst themselves in the language of the romas.

"Madman," the stocky man addressed again, accent thicker than before, "you've done nothing and you have nothing but the clothes on your back. Just go and don't come back-"

"N- not if ... I've got something to say about it," interrupted a slurry, drunken voice.

The man Raoul remembered as the boy's master feebly sat up and wiped the blood off his split lip. The saliva and blood glistened in the dark.

"This _comte_... o- owes me."

"Fair enough," someone said after a pause, followed by several sounds of agreement.

Raoul could not find the words to describe his indignation.

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><p>How had it come to this? It was as if his life had been transformed into some odd demented dream overnight. Practically taken prisoner by gypsies aat that! Raoul held his head in his hands as he sat on the bench within the Living Corpse's tent. Perhaps the impersonator had been working with the Amazing Madame. Oh, how he wished to ring her neck!<p>

"Monseiur."

The living corpse himself adjusted the position of the lamp. "Are you alright?"

Raoul sighed and shook his head. The boy sat across from him, bloodied shirt discarded in a heap.

"And you?"

"I'll be fine."

This was followed by a hiss of pain as the boy applied some kind of makeshift salve to his own back. He panted.

"Where did your master go?"

"He has some... issues to settle with the others."

"Involving me?"

"Possibly." The boy wiggled back into his shirt, the dim light shining on the marks left by the whip.

"Do you believe me?"

The only answer Raoul received was a shrug. Perhaps he was mad. Perhaps there was no impersonator. Perhaps that was-

"Tell me your name. Your real name."

The boy stiffened, eyes widening behind the mask. He hesitated before answering so softly and quietly that Raoul had to strain his ears to listen.

"Erik... no surname."

The last vestige of sanity seemed to snap in the world. There was only one last way to confirm the comte's worst fears.

"Take off the mask."

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><p><strong>Hope that was to your enjoyment.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**How long has it been? Two years or so? Finally an update! I'm so sorry for the hiatus.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>The boy stiffened. Raoul held his breath impatiently- his world was a mess as it was, and all he needed was a simple sight to confirm his madness. He could still remember the man's face in his mind. Oh, Erik had a horrid visage: parchment skin, thinly stretched over a pale skull, veins obvious, and a black hole for a nose.<p>

Was he prepared to face that sight again? If luck was on his side, he wouldn't have to.

"Monseiur," Erik, no, _the boy_, started, "I'd rather not scare you."

"I beg you," Raoul implored, "Please, I beg you, Erik- corpse, whatever you're called, please, I must see. I must."

The boy regarded him warily and the young man must have bore the eyes of a madman, that much Raoul was certain. Reluctantly, the child's thin fingers crawled towards the mask's strings. They moved with a speed so slow Raoul was almost pained.

The mask came down. Raoul's world prompty stopped moving. He wanted to break down and cry, from rage, grief, it mattered not. He wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Amazing Madame indeed!

The horror of a face was exactly as he remembered. Raoul felt the blood leave his head. His lower lip trembled and he struggled not to tear his eyes away and dash from that tent.

He must stare hard at that face and let every detail etch into his mind's eye.

"I told you so," the boy said coldly, shielding his face once more with the mask, "You'll most certainly have nightmares tonight, Monsieur le comte."

Raoul put a hand to his temple. "I'm living in a nightmare!" He snapped.

He laughed, guffawing until his insides hurt. Perhaps he drank something the night before. Perhaps he had gone too many nights without sleeping, what with Christine's illness and Phillipe's death. Yes, he had gone mad. He would go to sleep and wake up and all would be as it was before.

The boy, Erik, yes, _Erik_, stayed in his own little corner, staring at Raoul in much the same way the gypsies had.

"Tell me, boy, what year is it?"

"I don't know."

"Come, Erik- tell me! What harm can it do!"

He doubled over with laughter, slapping his thighs and pounding on the bench. He was a raving drunk, that must have been it- he was a poor poisoned wretch. The Madame had poisoned him and now his mind was slipping. He must have been dying. Such a marvelous end for a pathetic nobleman!

"I believe it is 1842."

Raoul closed his eyes. "1842, you say?" He chuckled again. "I was not even born. Phillipe would barely be a boy. And you Erik? Pray tell, how old are you, my ghost?"

"Monsieur, you're not well."

"Tell me!"

"Please-"

"Damn you, you wretched corpse! Tell me!"

"Twelve."

When the young man opened his eyes again, he could not distinguish a thing. The light had been put out.

"Good night, comte," Erik said softly.

Raoul did not reply. And for the first time that horrible night, he recognized the boy's voice- yes, the grim melodious tone of his darling's teacher. It was the year 1842 and he was in the tent of the Living Corpse.

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><p>The young man awoke to a thin filter of light coming in through the tent's flaps. He was sore and stiff. With disgust, Raoul stared at his wrinkled clothing and the damp sweat sticking to his shirt. He had a nightmare.<p>

A preposterous nightmare was all it was. Sighing, Raoul surveyed his surroundings. He was in an adequately sized tent, the only furniture present being the bench he rested on and a small table at the other end. A pile of blankets lay neatly folded on the ground.

Where was he? The Amazing Madame was all he could recall.

It had been too long and Christine must have been worried sick. It was terrible of him to worry her so. Taking a moment to stretch his limbs, Raoul prepared to leave the tent when the flaps moved.

A masked head poked its way in.

He remembered everything: the gypsies, the coins, the badly timed brawl, and the child's demonic face.

Good heavens! The nightmare was still playing out.

"What year is it?" He rasped.

"1842," the boy replied stoically.

Erik (good grief, he remembered the boy's name!) stepped into the tent with a clay bowl. "It's water, Monsieur. You must be thirsty."

The year was 1842. Raoul took the bowl without a second thought and poured its contents down his throat- the reality was as obvious as the stinging bruise on his cheek and the lukewarm liquid in his mouth. He had just accepted water from his worst enemy.

And with horror, the comte realized he would have to depend on the boy from that point forward.

He was as helpless as a blind child and his mind was still in shambles.

"Come with me, Monsieur. My master has orders for you."

Calling a gypsy master? Would Raoul be expected to do the same? Oh, the indignity!

"What kind of orders?"

"He wants you to clean his shoes. He only has two pairs."

Raoul could only stare at the boy's annoyingly familiar eyes. Clean shoes? He had not done such demeaning work since his days in the navy and even that did not come close to the degradation of what was asked, especially for a man who he was now beginning to loathe.

"I am le comte De Chagny," was all he could say.

"I know, Monsieur."

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><p><strong>Again, I'm horribly sorry for the long update. But this fic has come back to life! To be honest, I thought I'd give up on it for good but it's back now, and for everyone following, I owe you 10 more chapters. For everyone who reviewed, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart. Forgive me?<strong>

**And I hope this was entertaining enough for you to read. Feel free to review.**


	5. Chapter 5

**So this hasn't been updated in forever yet again. I made it long enough for 2 chapters to make up for it. Fair warning ahead: something rather bad happens to someone towards the end. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own POTO**

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><p>Raoul was on his knees, mouth pursed in anger, and unable to stop abusing the dirty rag in his hands. The damned gypsy's shoes stared at him. The mockery! But Raoul knew not to resist the tribe any longer; it would be a bad lookout for him indeed if he continued this "attitude," as the man named Javert had put it. He snorted. Javert, the character whose name was the epitome of black and white justice, had been used on this swine of a man.<p>

Hugo would be rolling in his grave. As he scrubbed away at the rotten shoes, noting with disgust the smell and ripped soles, life went on around him. The life of the poor, the outcast, the dregs of the Earth. He knelt outside Javert's tent, eyes downcast, stealing glances when he could at the passing gypsies. He saw the women prepare their pots and pans, the men ride off on their horses, the children play in circles, and the rest of them readying themselves for the fair.

"Are you really crazy?" a small voice asked.

Raoul turned toward the sound. A dirty faced child was looking at him curiously, one finger in his ear. The lack of manners reminded him of the less noble sailors. Those days were far behind him.

"No, I am not."

"Papa says you're not right in the head!"

"Leave me be."

The child grinned, happy to have caused Raoul additional suffering. "No!"

The man stared past the child, at a band of acrobats, a nude torch eater behind them, and another caravan setting up. He once visited these fairs as a child, Phillipe taking him by the hand and leading him to the booths he deemed safe. It pained his heart.

"Never leaving!"

The gypsy child laughed. Raoul had not the cruelty to strike him, but there was no need, for the child paled immediately when Erik stepped into view. Without another word, he scrambled away, screaming about the devil's apprentice. Oh yes, this was indeed the same Erik Raoul knew.

"Monsieur, my master says you must help us when the fair starts."

"How can I refuse that offer?"

"Follow me."

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><p>Raoul stood over the miniature coffin, too repulsed to say a word. Erik lay on the inside, staring up at him and delivering soft directions on what to do. He must haul the coffin out of their tent, he must show it to the crowd, he must pry it open with flare, and he must faint when the mask comes off. Javert will do the rest. The boy seemed to take the young man for an idiot. Raoul did not need Erik to repeat those directions for the third time.<p>

"They called you the devil's apprentice," he said dryly.

"Would it make you more comfortable if I said it was a rumor?"

Raoul didn't have to reply. Javert had returned to the duo and aggresively slammed the coffin shut, the sound snapping in Raoul's ears.

"Show's starting," he said, "_Comte_."

Playfully slapping Raoul on the shoulder, the shorter man left the tent with a rude laugh. He turned back to the coffin. Could Erik even breathe in there? But hadn't Christine told him he slept in a coffin? Could he even breathe without a nose? They were stupid questions.

He waited for the cue. Erik had mentioned a cue. Nervously, Raoul put his hands on the coffin, accepting his fate at last.

"The most hideous face in the world!" Javert's voice bellowed.

But how could he return to his time?

"Truly a sight that must be seen to be beheld! A creature made of death from the head down- the very spawn of hell itself!"

He was surprised the man knew the word "beheld."

"Wonders beyond your wildest dreams! Hear the voice of lilacs! Hear the voice of the dead!"

If he could not return to his time, what of his dear wife? Christine needed her Raoul!

"So horrid, so beautiful, so-"

Surely there must be a way. If the Amazing Madame had sent him back, someone must be able to send him forward.

"Mesmorizing-"

It was gypsy magic. Perhaps Raoul could learn it himself and-

"I present to you, the living corpse!"

He grabbed the coffin and dragged it out of the tent, eyes widening at the crowd that faced him. Children, men, women, rich, poor, old, young, persons of all sorts stared at him expectantly. The sun struck at them, the noises of the fair mingled with their chatter, and Raoul once again wondered if this was a dream.

He opened the lid, pretending to strain under the effort. Raoul stepped aside, unwilling to look at Javert or the crowd, and watched Erik rise slowly, arms crossed, and as stiff as the corpse he was labeled. Lilacs fell out of the coffin. They sang.

Oh, how the flowers sang. Without a doubt, their tragic voices came from Erik's hidden mouth. Raoul had already experienced the ability in what felt like a lifetime ago, another event he liked to consider a mere nightmare.

The singing came to a halt and Erik's hands rose to his mask. They rested on the strings behind his ears, with the same noticeable reluctance from the night before. Was Raoul not supposed to faint?

He did not see Erik's face. Raoul forced himself to crumple on the ground just as the mask slid off. Cheers turned to screams, gasps of awe to gasps of terror, applause to jeers, and chatter to numb silence. He felt coins hit his body.

Money was being tossed at the boy. Javert seemed to be laughing. He heard the man shouting.

"Now you have seen the face of the devil's son himself!"

Raoul did not want to sit up. Some poor fellow was retching in the crowd. "The face of death itself!"

Javert's foot kicked him rather hard in the side. Grunting, Raoul opened his eyes, the crowd still a mess of shocked faces standing over him, their gaze lingering on Erik's exposed face.

The showman continued his tirade about the boy's ugliness, the black arts, and all sorts of quackery Raoul doubted any sane man would believe. He felt as if it would go on forever! Just when it seemed Javert would finally end his speech, Raoul felt something glance his forehead.

The core of an apple rolled on the dusty ground. He wondered which low-life had thrown it at him. Turning his attention back to the crowd, he realized the small objects being thrown past Javert were not meant for him.

The audience was not even upset with the show! The ones throwing pebbles were laughing; they were delighted. Javert grinned back. The pebbles were meant for the living corpse. Erik stood calmly, not a single flinch passing his form, as he was pelted. Raoul dared not look at his face but he could see the small rocks bouncing off the boy's frail body, some coming away stained with blood.

Without thinking, the comte yelled at the boy. "Dodge!"

His voice was drowned out by Javert's barking. "Death fears nothing! Come at it with all you can- nothing will faze the corpse! Nothing can triumph over death!"

The bastard should be a tenor! Furious, Raoul raised himself to his full height, the apple core scooped up in his hand. He threw it at Javert's head. Damn this show. Damn it all.

Nothing changed. Raoul was left fuming while Javert egged his customers on, filling them with imaginary fears and thrills. Erik did not budge. At some point, the boy folded his arms across his chest, whether in defiance or defense the comte could not tell.

"Sing!" A croaky voice cried.

"Sing! Sing!" The chant spread all around them. The crowd acted more like a lynch mob than an audience in Raoul's opinion. Javert raised his hands, the movement only somewhat calming the livid mob.

If Raoul had any more doubt of Erik's identity, it dissipated into thin air as soon as the living corpse weaved his song. It was a voice as soft and glorious as heaven itself, as bitter and haunting as that of great Orpheus, as melodious and terrible as the sirens of old.

Entranced and sickened with grief, Raoul brushed away the tears on his cheek. At long last, the song came to an end and Raoul missed its intoxication greatly. As moved and stricken as the young man, the crowd began dispersing, bit by bit.

With a sigh, Erik walked back to his coffin, mask in hand. After collecting the last of what Javert considered justifiable extra pay, the man hoarded the day's income into a tight burlap sack. Raoul kept at Erik's heels all the while.

"Monsieur, you should not have interrupted," the boy said softly.

Raoul looked him in his thankfully covered face. "It was barbaric. Why do you put up with it?" _The opera ghost certainly wouldn't have!_

Erik seemed genuinely confused. "I thought it went quite well, compared to before."

"Before?"

"It's best left unsaid."

The boy was being irritable, as always, and Raoul had only known him for a grand total of two days as an estimate.

"You!" Javert's loud voice sliced in.

Raoul turned around, only for the other man to clout him in the ear. His head ringing, Raoul was shoved forward by the chest.

"Madman, you threw that at me, didn't you!?"

Javert moved to strike him again, but this time, the comte's hand came around his wrist. Raoul tightened his grip. He was taller than this man, stronger than this man, and had they still been in his time, far more powerful than Javert would ever know. The thought angered him. And yet he had to suffer hurts at this gypsy's hand!

Besides, they said he was mad, did they not? Then mad he would be!

Javert must have understood his train of thought for the man immediately relented and stepped back. Raoul let go, both men at a stand-off, exchanging glowers.

"Best be getting back to the coffin, comte."

"My name is De Chagny, Raoul De Chagny."

Javert spat on the ground. "De Chagny, might get us arrested for calling you that. _Raoul_, we have another show coming up."

The showman shoved past him and stomped into the tent, no doubt to check for any unearthed spoils. Raoul clenched and unclenched his fists. His gaze fell on the masked boy by the coffin.

"How many shows are there... Erik?"

"Until nightfall if we're lucky. If not, in the next hour."

"Does he pay you?"

Erik began pushing the coffin back towards the tent. "I call him master, M. De Chagny. What do you think?"

Raoul did not reply. He merely stood and dusted his trousers, hoping the Daae's lives with the fair were nowhere near this demeaning.

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><p>They had been lucky, as Erik put it. Raoul's head was still aching from the cheering crowds well into the night, the only respite being the boy's singing. He thanked the heavens above that he could finally rest.<p>

The gypsies were dancing in the distance, tending their horses, and gathering for supper. Little groups had their own campfires and Raoul suddenly felt quite lonely next to the Living Corpse's tent. Javert was in a much larger tent a little ways ahead, and Raoul noticed how secluded the three of them were from the rest of the tribe. Or rather, Javert and Erik. Raoul was the outsider. He had not felt this way since childhood.

Some heavy noises went on behind the tents, most of them involving Javert cursing. Raoul wondered if he was punishing that dumb horse of his. He did not know where Erik was and he was too tired to care. A part of his situation was Erik's fault anyway- the rest was his own and the amazing madame's.

"Oh Monsieur le comte," Javert cooed, emerging from behind the young man.

A dish of gruel fell at his feet, bits of food sloshing on the grass. With a grunt of disgust, Raoul picked the dish up, a dirty wooden spoon at its side. If he wanted to live to see his wife again, he had better not starve.

"Your day's keep."

"Thank you." His tongue wanted to bleed.

"You seemed quite concerned about my little corpse this morning."

The man's voice was creeping in his ears. Raoul didn't like the tone he took. One sweaty palm pat him on the shoulder and Raoul saw that it was stained with blood. Oh, he did not like what the man was doing one bit. He set the gruel down.

"What are you trying to say?"

"Monsieur le comte, the pretty pretty saint."

Raoul grit his teeth as the man's finger tapped him on the chin. "Come with me, Raoul. Let's see to it that we've no more disagreements."

Raoul stood up, Javert grinning in front of him. The other man led him towards the tents, Raoul wary of some plot against his well-being. They rounded Javert's tent and through the unsteady glow of a small campfire, Raoul saw a figure between two thin trees.

"What did you do him?" He all but rasped.

Erik's arms were raised, wrists bound to a branch on either tree, the cords cutting into his skin. The boy's mask dangled on his face, threatening to fall with the next gust of wind. Black bruises marred the boy's exposed chest, angry red gashes on his twig thin arms. Javert prodded Raoul, motioning him to look at the child's backside.

The comte wanted to retch. The skin was split open on the boy's back, slash upon slash of bleeding welts covering nearly every inch of it. The blood trickled down his legs, dripping onto the otherwise green blades of grass.

"Stubborn thing too proud to scream, kind of like you, comte." Javert delivered a low whistle. "Now you see, if you cross me again, the little corpse pays."

Raoul trembled with rage, staring wide-eyed at the man, as the meaning of those words sank in.

"Cut him down," he whispered.

"I think I'll leave him like this a little longer. It heals quite fast."

"Damn you!"

"You should get back to your dinner before it gets cold. I've got busier things to take care of."

"Javert." Raoul felt his insides clench at the next word. "_Please_. I'll trouble you no more. Just let him down."

Javert regarded him silently, as if assessing whether or not Raoul was telling the truth. Eventually, he nodded with a smug smile and casually approached the bound boy. Taking a knife from his belt, he twirled it for a bit before cutting away at the knots.

Raoul knew the task was done when Erik fell limply to the ground.

"And you should say?" Javert asked, prodding Erik with his foot.

"Thank you," Raoul hissed.

"And next time you try to act like a saint, just remember, I can do much much worse." When the last threat had been delivered, Javert took his leave, knife still in hand and not bothering to look back.

Immediately, the comte gathered the boy in his arms, surprised at the near lack of weight. Raoul shuddered at the wounds, mildly amazed at how cruel the child's master had been. He wanted to chop the man's hands off. Almost protectively, Raoul held Erik closer to his chest and began the short walk to their shared tent.

He wanted to believe Erik deserved this. He wanted to laugh in spite. But Raoul found that he could not. No matter what the future had in store, he could not hate the living corpse any longer. There was nothing but a hurt child in his arms.

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><p><strong>Hope that was worth waiting for! Of course, reviews are very welcome.<strong>

**On a side note, my Raoul is very Leroux-based, which is ironic since I usually prefer ALW Raoul. I have a lot of bones to pick with Leroux!Raoul which makes this fic more of a challenge because I'm trying to show his good and bad sides. Even though he's annoying, Leroux!Raoul is ultimately a kind person who had more facets than the original story let him show. I don't know if I succeeded in exploring him or not but I hope you enjoyed his characterization for the most part.**

**I'm also sorry for doing what I did to Erik. Pounding adult Erik around is one thing, but pounding little!Erik around is one of the worst things one can do, haha.**


	6. Chapter 6

**So it's been forever since my last update- sorry to everyone that's been waiting. This is just one of those fics that my interest fades in and out of, and it doesn't get many reviews, so I assume no one's dying from anticipation. If you're one of those people dying from anticipation, please let me know or I just assume it's okay for me to update at snail speed!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>Raoul fumbled through Erik's few belongings, picking at every loose sheet of paper and cloth and who knows what else before his fingers closed around a small bottle. In the darkness, the dim lantern was hardly sufficient light but the comte was sure he had the right object. Erik had used the salve on his back once. Yes, that must have been it.<p>

Satisfied, Raoul hastily returned to the prone figure he laid on Erik's pile of blankets. The boy hadn't stirred the entire time and there was already a sizeable amount of blood beneath him. The young man flipped the boy on his stomach and began applying the ointment with a loose strip of cloth.

As he tended Erik's seemingly endless amount of injuries, Raoul thought of nothing but the task at hand. He had resolved to handle one thing at a time- he was alone in this strange world and he would have to depend on himself.

"Don't fret, brother," as Phillipe would say.

Raoul had fretted enough for the past few days, and this time there was no Phillipe to tell him not to. Oh, how he missed his brother. The conditions were unsanitary and the young man was sure he would starve before daybreak. The thought of eating food prepared by Javert made him sick. As he began wrapping hopefully clean linen around Erik's limbs and torso, he wondered what they would do should the boy's wounds become infected. Raoul did not have access to clean water, or alcohol for that matter.

With another fruitless sigh, Raoul threw a blanket over the child and collapsed on the bench. He was tired and he could feel his resolve waning with each passing moment. Shutting his eyes, the comte allowed himself to enter the bliss of unconsciousness.

_"Raoul, come back, you disagreeable boy!" _

_The boy ignored his governess, undoing his bow and vest as his bare feet carried him across the sand. The lovely little girl was staring awestruck at him. Raoul dived into the water, moving his limbs toward the red object in the distance._

_"My scarf!" Her light voice called._

_His hand closed around it and he emerged from the water, a triumphant grin on his face._

It was early in the morning when Raoul woke. Damn this life! He was painfully aware of his surroundings, and he would do anything to go back to his dreams, where little Lotte waited for him, and he could live forever in bliss by the beach. A lump grew in his throat- although he had come to terms with his situation at last, he did not feel better, not in the least.

"Monsieur," a weak voice groaned.

Sitting up, the comte allowed his eyes a moment to return to clarity before turning them to the figure on the ground. Erik was staring at him with perplexed, pained eyes, his mask still slightly askew.

"Is anything broken?" Raoul asked, feeling rather stupid afterwards.

"N- no."

There must have been some hesitation on the boy's part, for his next words were, "Did you bring me back?" Raoul nodded wearily.

"Were you the one who helped me?"

"Yes and it wasn't easy."

"But-" Erik's lids shut tightly. He squeaked the next word. "_Why_?"

Raoul smirked and shrugged. _Why indeed, little corpse?_ He honestly did not truly want to know. Some part of him would not allow the child to be harmed, and some part had considered the possibility of letting Erik die here and now. The boy had been beyond helpless in Raoul's grip and it would have been easy to end his life. Perhaps that would have solved everything. But the comte did not do it.

Perhaps he pitied the boy. Perhaps he felt that he could not face himself as a human being if he did nothing. None of his answers made sense.

"Because I could," Raoul said at last.

Erik's eyes were open again, wide with an emotion that was uncomfortably genuine.

"T- thank you."

Neither said anything afterwards. It wasn't until a bout of coughing seized the boy that Raoul shot up.

"Water- Erik- where do the lot of you keep your water!?"

"I- in the... camp cen-center... ba- barrels- barrels of it..."

The comte stepped past the boy and threw himself out the tent, the morning air still damp and cold. He didn't have a particular idea where the center was but experience in the navy had given him a keen sense of direction, and Raoul ran off in the direction that seemed best suited. Luckily, not many of the gypsies were yet awake, though the ones that were did cast him a few odd glances.

It was only when he reached the large barrels that Raoul realized he brought nothing to carry the water in. He cursed his luck and opted for taking the clay pitcher lying on the ground, not caring who it belonged to. Strangely enough, he felt no mortification- heaven knows he'd had enough of that.

Placing his hands on the pump attached the first barrel's side, he filled the pitcher to the brim. Carefully, he took it in his arms and walked back to Erik's tent, which he supposed was also his tent by this point.

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><p>"Erik, have you any idea how to obtain food here?"<p>

Gulping the water viciously, the boy gasped, his unmasked face turned away from Raoul, though the man could hear his drinking clearly. His back, the red marks that Raoul did not manage to bandage, glaring painfully, was facing the comte.

"Master will feed us."

The thought revolted Raoul. "What I mean is extra food- I cannot survive on his measly scraps."

"I could steal some fruit for you, but I don't think I'll be able to do so today."

"No stealing! That pitcher is all the patience I have for."

"Then... you could try asking the women."

Raoul laughed in spite of himself. "I don't understand."

"Oh monsieur, you are the handsomest man in this camp... I know I'm not qualified to speak of looks... but the young women, I'm sure they would help you."

Thankfully Erik could not see the blush that had crept over Raoul's features.

"You have quite the extensive vocabulary for a gypsy boy."

Erik froze, much in the same way he had the night Raoul asked his name. "Perhaps."

"I suppose I could try that method- but I'm a married man. They won't expect me to..."

"Not if you play carefully."

Raoul wasn't completely satisfied with his answer but he really had not other alternative. He was in dire need of more sustenance and a few clean shirts. Erik's master wasn't about to pay him any time soon either.

"Pass me the pitcher."

"... You wouldn't mind? I have the devil's mouth-"

The only thing Raoul cared about was germs, and he was in far too desperate a predicament to care that much. He assumed the water was fine, and he was sure Christine would have laughed in horror at the thought of Raoul sharing a jug of water with his rival.

"I don't mind."

The man took the pitcher shakily and poured a splash of water down his mouth, swallowing it inelegantly.

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><p>Raoul was sure he looked awful, dark circles around his eyes and hair unkempt. He must have stunk of sweat as well, but according to Erik, that had done little to affect the man's looks. Regretting what he was about to do, Raoul approached a sun tanned adolescent who appeared to be holding chunks of bread. She had full hips and glossy black hair tied back in an intricate braid.<p>

He hoped he wasn't about to do something terrible.

"Excuse me," he said, hoping she spoke French.

Startled, she glanced at him with panicking eyes. One of her companions was by her side immediately, a brunette around the same age, and both were now staring at him.

"Mad man," he heard one of them murmur.

"I assure you, I am not mad," he said earnestly, lowering his eyes in a shy gaze, "I was of nobility and misfortune fell on me. But you and your kind tribe have allowed me to stay."

The black haired girl held back a yelp when he took her hand in his. "What is your name?"

"A- Anuaka."

"Anuaka, that's a lovely name." He smiled his most sincere smile, watching a blush form in the girl's cheeks.

"I'm Dana," the brunette chimed in.

"I can't tell which name is more beautiful."

Raoul dropped on one knee and pressed a kiss to the back of the girl's hand before doing the same to her friend's. Their nervous murmurs turned to childish giggles. It reminded him of his adolescent days, when Phillipe would force him to greet the daughters of new guests.

"I simply have no money for food and I haven't eaten properly in days," he sighed.

The gave him looks of sympathy. "I will certainly repay your kindness when I find a proper job in this camp. Nasty Javert will not let me do anything else at the moment-"

More giggles.

"I promise, on my honor. So if you would, some bread is all I ask for."

"But will these be enough... uh?"

"Raoul, my name is Raoul."

They handed him half a loaf, one that looked rather unappetizing, but Raoul was grateful for its sheer size. He took it and smiled.

"This is more than sufficient. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, mademoiselles."

Noticing an irritated man coming his way, Raoul bowed at the girls and bid a hasty farewell. He all but ran away, making sure to avoid the men. Behind him, he heard some foreign argument between the man and his benefactors.

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><p>Raoul set the bread on the closest thing Erik's tent had to a table and took his place on the bench. Perhaps Erik used that bench, but Raoul wasn't in the mood to feel guilty.<p>

The boy laughed across from him, taking childish delight in Raoul's tale. It almost made the comte feel at ease. Almost.

"It wasn't that funny," he berated.

"I- I'm sorry!" Erik burst into another peal, interrupted by intervals of coughing.

"I want to ask around for clothes next. This is making me feel like a common beggar."

It was at that moment a dreaded pair of boots entered the tent of the living corpse. Instinctively, Raoul snatched the loaf and hid it behind himself. Javert hadn't noticed- his scrutinizing eyes were on Erik.

"Merrymaking with the madman I see?"

The boy said nothing. The man knelt by Erik and placed a rough hand on his shoulder. He squeezed. "Did a number on you last night, didn't we."

With a harsh laugh, he pushed the boy on the ground and flipped him on his side. "Can't have these getting in the way of tomorrow's show-" He prodded at the bandages, earning strained moans of pain from the child.

"Leave us, Raoul- I have to tend to my freak."

Raoul didn't like the way man spoke- there was a sultry tone to his voice that went beyond degradation, something he couldn't quite place. The way Javert looked at the boy put him at unease. He seemed to enjoy the vulnerability, take delight in Erik's moans, find some perverse pleasure in all the suffering.

He would not leave the tent.

"I'll tend to him, Javert. There's no need- I promise you."

"If he dies in the morning, I'll count it on your pretty head," the other man spat, giving the boy one last shove before standing up. He gave Raoul a hated look, as if he considered arguing more but did not want the comte to know his true intentions.

Raoul merely nodded, keeping his face neutral as their "master" left the tent, a tad too slowly for comfort.

Once he was sure the man was gone, Raoul left his spot on the bench and tentatively sat by Erik, moved with indignation and overcome by some desire to comfort the boy.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Erik nodded.

"When I was in pain, my brother would tell me stories to distract me. I don't know if my stories are to your taste, but I think we both need some comfort at this point."

Erik's eyes were on him, curious and hazed with pain.

"There was once a girl named Lotte. One day she went with her papa to the sea..."

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Review if you'd like (I've decided to just let Erik take another horrible beating if greedy Javert isn't satisfied with the review count haha)<strong>

**And does anyone else find it oddly refreshing to refer to Raoul as the "man" and Erik as the "boy"?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Long time no update, eh? I'm so sorry! My other POTO fic is only 1 chapter away from completion, so I wanted to let anyone still following this story to know that I do plan on continuing. As I've said before, my interest for this fic fades in and out- only reviews let me know if anyone wants to see its completion. I have everything planned out, but frequently lack the will to actually write it out.**

**Again, really sorry and a huge thank you to everyone who hasn't given up on this yet.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>Raoul smiled in spite of himself. Oh, the memories of his Christine were enough to lift his spirits. "You see, Lotte cared little for material things. All she needed was her papa's love and her free heart. What an imagination she had! But if there was anything at all she cared for, it was the red silk scarf her father had given her. It showed his love for her and her for his."<p>

He glanced at Erik, the boy having curled himself into a ball of sorts.

"Are you listening?"

There seemed to be a nod. "If not, then I shall have to stop this tale, Erik."

"I am listening! I am-"

"Very well. Now, Lotte and her father were strolling by the sea. He was telling stories and playing his violin. He was a wonderful musician and music was like the food of Lotte's soul. But as she roamed on the beach, a strong gust of wind blew and-"

"Was she blown into the sky?"

Raoul froze, holding back a sudden laugh. That was the most preposterous conclusion he had ever heard in regards to this tale. But Erik's told him the boy was quite serious. He shook his head.

"No. Her scarf came undone and flew into the sea."

"Oh."

"It gets more exciting. At the same time, a little boy was walking with his governess. He was a silly thing and the moment he saw that crying girl, he knew something was wrong. The woman yelled at him but he cared not! This boy threw off his shoes and dove into the sea. He swam until he found the scarf and when Lotte thought all was lost, the little boy walked up to her, wet and funny. 'Do not cry' he said. She smiled such a smile and it was then that the silly boy fell in love."

His chest tightened. If only he could return to that time. "They became friends after that and they spent many many summers together."

"And then?"

"Like many things in life, tragedy touched them." Raoul remembered the nightmare at the Opera; if it wasn't for the fact that Erik was staring up at him with childlike wonder, he would liken this to a drunken dream. He was years in the past, telling his most precious memory to his worst enemy. And yet there was nothing about the boy save his face that resembled the Erik of his memory. "But the two did find their way together and they were married in a small church to the north. All would be happy if the silly boy was not sitting here right now."

The child sat up, wincing as he propped himself on his elbows. "Then the boy... was you?"

"Yes, and I miss my wife more than words can say. She's all I have left, really, but I don't know how to return to my time."

Erik said nothing. Raoul suspected he must have thought him mad.

"Monsieur, I hope you find a way soon."

"We shall have to see."

"Thank you for the story. It was very enjoyable."

Raoul didn't quite know how to respond to that so he settled for a gentle nod. His stomach rumbled. "Come, boy, let's have some bread."

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><p>Still remembering the irritated gypsy, Raoul was careful to approach Anuaka when she was relatively alone. It was near noon and she was fiddling with an assortment of tambourines. "Hello."<p>

Startled, she turned around, a blush tinging her face upon seeing the young man. "Monsieur-"

"Raoul. I wanted to thank you again for the bread."

"Oh, it- it was nothing."

"I don't mean to trouble you more, but- do you know where I can find clean clothes? It wouldn't be decent if these rubbed away and I had to run around in the nude." He couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth!

Anuaka laughed, a bell-like sound that almost reminded him of Christine. "My father has some old shirts lying around, yellow and wearing away. It'd be a shame to throw them away."

And now he was asking for the old clothes of a gypsy? The humiliation! Raoul nodded gratefully.

"After the fair closes tonight, Raoul. I'll bring them to you- but I can't let my father know."

"I cannot thank you enough." He kissed her hand again, feeling very guilty for taking advantage of the young girl in this fashion. After bidding her farewell, he made his way back to Javert's tent, ignoring the stares of the busy gypsies. He had forgotten that they were still performing and something about it troubled him.

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><p>Erik was lying in his coffin when Raoul found him in the tent, Javert's harsh voice rousing the spectators that had come. Raoul was expected to faint again at the sight of Erik's face, though the young man considered laughing instead just to spite Javert. It was an impractical idea.<p>

"Erik, I'm going to close the lid now."

There was no reply. Sighing, Raoul placed his hands on the lid and prepared to close it when the sound of the crowd's yelling shook his concentration. There would be no more stalling if Javert wanted to make half as much money as the night before. As if by accident, his eyes chanced to fall on Erik's form. He really did look like a corpse, the eyes shut and shadowed behind the mask, and the rise and fall of his chest was barely noticeable. Raoul frowned. Was Erik sleeping on the job?

"Erik, are you awake?"

He was answered with the same frustrating silence. Something was wrong- yes, he had earned enough of the boy's trust to receive something other than this cold treatment. He ventured to touch the boy's neck- a pulse was there. Untying the mask ever so slightly, he pulled it down enough to touch the forehead. So it hadn't been a trick. He was warm, uncharacteristically warm.

Erik had been cold to the touch in his arms the other night and this sudden development led Raoul to one conclusion. Fever! Panicking, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook, calling his name. The only response was a shudder. _Damn it!_ Setting Erik back in his place, Raoul proceeded to leave the tent himself.

Javert's face contorted among seeing him. Raoul pulled the man aside, to the hisses and cries of fraud from the audience. "Raoul, what is it!?"

"He's fainted."

Javert's mouth visibly tightened, his face freezing, an anger steadily building up through his reddening face.

"I think his wounds are infected, _Javert_."

_And you should know what was the cause, villain!_ Raoul knew he had all but spat the name out but the brute seemed not to acknowledge the comte's discontent.

"I'll drag the damn thing out! You keep the crowd!"

Raoul was shoved aside, the crowd yelling for their act, and Javert muttering curses under his breath. Having steadied himself, Raoul watched Javert stomp toward the tent. He turned toward the spectators, suddenly feeling very minuscule. There would be no stopping Javert unless he wanted to warrant a beating for Erik and himself. Raoul would simply force himself to follow the man's orders.

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><p><strong>Cliffhanger! Thanks for reading and reviews are more than welcome! Interested in seeing the rest of this? Like the way I'm writing Raoul? Hate the way I'm writing anyone? Let me know.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello you wonderful readers! I've updated at long last! I really want to finish this fic, but I'm very slow at updating and personal motivation is fleeting. Only finished the chapter because of you lovely reviewers- reviews not only increase motivation, they also increase pressure. **

** Igenlode Wordsmith: Yes, all this time traveling is meant to twist our minds, haha. Raoul has three options now: kill Erik, "tame" the kid, or go back to his own time. He's too nice to do the first so he's opting for the third.**

** Just a Guest: Thanks for the advice! I see where you're coming from. It's been long since I've updated so every chapter feels like a large time skip when only a few days have passed. Hopefully, Erik won't come across as too trusting anymore. I just wanted to show that he was still childish and to him, Raoul is a madman, which equals outcast (just like him!), but I'll definitely slow things down from here on out.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>"Is this a scam!?"<p>

"-want my francs back!"

"Where is it?"

"He said there'd be a show!"

The words gathered in his ears like thunderstorms, each loud and unrelenting. Raoul opened his mouth to argue, only to be cut off by yet another loud complaint. In spite of himself, he remembered Phillipe's opinions of the lower classes, and now, looking at their scrunched faces, hearing their coarse language, faced with the assaulting smells and mannerisms, he witnessed why. A few were moving towards him!

He resisted the urge to step back, lest they see it as a sign to continue harassing him.

"There _will_ be a show!" he found himself shouting. These were the words they wanted to hear, were they not?

"And when's that going to be? The next year!?"

This was followed by a pebble glancing him in the ear. Raoul stumbled, biting his tongue at the brief shot of pain. Savages! Several more small rocks assaulted them and he could not help but cover his head with his arms. "I assure you, it will not be long!"

If his father had truly visited this fair a few days past, then how could he possibly have withstood it? Ah, yes. That must have been why the good comte never returned. So this was the showman's trade, this life of danger, no better than a dog's! How could his Christine have lived through it? The thought only brought on another surge of anger.

"Javert!" he called, then louder, "Javert!" He shouted until his voice grew hoarse.

After a painful period of what felt like an eternity, Javert returned, Erik limply in toll.

"Here it is- the most hideous thing on earth!" he shouted against the simmering crowd.

He shoved the boy into view, holding him tightly by the arms. Raoul doubted Erik could stand much longer; the boy looked like he was on the very verge of dying. Javert bent to Erik's height and Raoul heard him whisper- hiss, rather- "sing."

The only sound Raoul heard was a muffled cry of pain, a reaction to whatever abuse that Javert was inflicting. The mask was ripped off and Erik was tossed toward the crowd, stumbling about as screams tore through the air.

They did not make as much money for this performance, not without the living corpse's voice. Raoul didn't care to find out what Javert would do in compensation, though he wondered how long it would be before the boy collapsed. The young man reached out to catch him when Erik fell at last, but Javert beat him to it, clasping him all too roughly.

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><p>Raoul folded the clothes Anuaka had given him, frowning at the coarse material. The shirts were too large for his frame, but they would have to do eventually. The hot blush in his cheeks had not yet faded; how improper it was of him to bait the poor girl! He sat in the tent alone, watching the flicker of the small lamp. When Erik was sent back, he would consult him about the plans in his head. That is, if the child was lucid enough.<p>

There was no more time to waste. The fair was planning to leave in a few more days and he was stuck with them. He growled in frustration, praying that he would not be presumed dead in his time. The Amazing Madame had to exist- perhaps she had a mentor! Yes, he needed to seek out a gypsy familiar with these strange arts.

Then the madness would end.

The pressure grew in his bladder. Javert had taken Erik to his tent, presumably to speed the fever's recovery. _The thing always comes out of it fast_, the brute had said to him. Raoul had been ordered away, lest he incur more trouble. But Raoul was sick of waiting, and perhaps... worrying.

He went out to relieve himself. Javert could not fault a man for that.

After urinating near some bushes (oh, the indignity!), Raoul held the shame in and strolled in the direction of Javert's tent. He knelt beside the flaps, listening to the sounds of bottles moving and low grunting. No, Javert was speaking.

"Listen... little piece of... or it's back in the cage for you..."

Raoul heard what sounded like a smack. "You had best be ready by... now..."

"... go now?" It was Erik's voice, sounding smaller than Raoul had was used to.

Another loud noise. Shuffling. Raoul stood up and turned his back, pretending to be doing other things. Erik appeared from the tent, mask in hand.

"Monsieur?"

"I needed to relieve my- I mean, I could not sleep."

Raoul turned toward him, Erik still in the process of replacing his mask, but it did little to hide the blood trickling down his chin. He stumbled and this time, Raoul was quick enough to steady him. The boy's breath came out shallowly.

"What did he do?" the once comte asked.

"He has medicine he thinks will work... I could do better on my own."

Raoul supposed he could. They walked on, Erik not bothering to break from Raoul's grip, his yellow eyes glossed over. The young man chanced a longer glance at Erik, angrily noting a new set of dark bruises on the boy's collarbone. But there were a few marks above that, along the throat, ones that struck Raoul as disturbingly familiar.

La Sorelli had been seen with the same marks once and Phillipe had been her favorite culprit.

"Why is Javert such a recluse?" Raoul asked instead, their tent coming into view.

"He is not a gypsy, monsieur... merely traveling with them- they let him stay because he makes money."

That answered a few questions and opened up a few more. Raoul held his tongue. He would ask at a better time. Now his best concern should be waiting for the boy to recover some. Then he could discuss his means of- oh, how it irked him to say it- time travel.

"Are you all right?" he asked rather abruptly.

Erik stiffened. No answer came, but the boy nodded. Raoul took that for a no.

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><p><strong>(No, nothing happened to Erik's lower parts in the tent) Raoul would be having an easier time if a certain doctor was helping him. Thanks for reading!<strong>

**Let me know if you're still interested in the story and how you're liking/disliking it so far~**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, I think this is the fastest update for this fic I've ever had! Thank you all for sticking with me and letting me know that you like my portrayal of Raoul. It's always nice to know I'm doing a character justice.**

** Anonymous: Glad you like the story! To answer the question, Raoul stays with the gypsies because he thinks they belong to the same group the Amazing Madame came from; also, he's penniless and stuck in a forest.**

** Just a Guest: Thanks again for the review! To answer your question, I'm not really a Whovian but I do appreciate the show. Hope you're feeling better about Matt Smith leaving; give Capaldi a chance- he may surprise you ;)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>The night dragged on, Raoul unable to catch a wink of sleep. He stared into space as the boy slept, huddled in a trembling pile of blankets on the ground. Javert had claimed recovery would be fast, but Raoul found that hard to believe. With an absent mind, the young man approached Erik and gently removed him from the blankets. His medical knowledge was limited, but Raoul supposed it was logical to change the dressings on the child's wounds.<p>

The marks on his back looked better than they had when Raoul last saw them. He applied the salve with a softness that was almost instinctive, afraid that the skinny body would break in his touch. Erik did nothing in protest save an occasional shiver or muffled moan.

"Hush," the young man whispered, "hush."

Those were Phillipe's words to him once upon a time, when he had awoken from nightmares of the wildest sort. He found himself repeating the phrase to Christine during their last weeks together. And now he was saying them to the cause of those nightmares. Oh, the irony of this cycle. But the words did soothe the boy and soon there were no more moans in that tent.

That left the former comte unoccupied for the duration of the night. Raoul felt as if he was caught in some dream- memories were mingling and all the absurd thoughts he ever had were suddenly plausible. He imagined turning into a wolf. Perhaps if he thought about it hard enough, he would become one. If that was possible, then this, all of this would make sense.

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><p>Erik slept through the next day and the day after, waking up in intervals for Javert to force water or some form of sustenance down his throat. Raoul was forced out of the tent during this time, though it did nothing to save him from the sounds of Erik's gags and Javert's cursing. He was tasked with mundane chores, Javert becoming more irritable by the hour.<p>

It was a funny thing- Raoul was sure Christine would laugh at him for centuries if she knew. He was washing bowls for the gypsies, shining Javert's ill scented shoes, even polishing Erik's coffin. If only Christine could see him now. He wouldn't mind if he was Javert's slave for two lifetimes as long as he could see her again.

During the nights, he found himself staring up at the stars, trying to lose himself in their wonder, a wonder that he had lost in boyhood and rekindled when Christine returned to his life. He rubbed his eyes. Hadn't the plan been to take her to Sweden at one point? Yes, to go to her home and spend the rest of their lives in isolation, away from the tabloids and gossip and reminders of the Opera. But Mama Valerius' health had declined, the weather had become too bleak in the countryside. And Raoul was faced with a dilemma he hoped he would not regret.

He wrote to his sisters first, not the other way around as Christine had believed. He hadn't told her because there was too much pressure on her shoulders already. Regardless of what the press said, he was still the vicomte, the rightful heir to Phillipe's fortune and estate. He returned to Paris to take it all back. At least with the money, he could afford extra comforts for Christine.

She hadn't been happy with his decision. But he knew it had been the moral one, if not the right one. Phillipe had always been better at handling these situations than him. By then, it had been too late for Valerius. Her death had taken a visible toll on Christine. But he supposed the final disillusionment set in when Erik's name showed up in the newspaper.

It was all a spiral of not-quite tragedies that made him feel terribly tragic.

Raoul saw Christine in every kind-faced girl in camp, Anuaka especially. The laughter, the casual innocence, all things he yearned to see once more. So he really couldn't find it in himself to blame the gypsy girl when her brother struck him.

It was toward the end of a long afternoon when he was seeking her company, as had become a habit of his. He childishly took solace in their conversations about birds and family. She was busy sewing a quilt when he found her.

"Raoul!"

He pressed a finger to her lips and she giggled. Raoul sat down next to her. "You're good at this."

"No, I'm plain- you should see my aunt- I think she's a witch. Only a witch would be so good." And she laughed that sound which was coarse and pure.

"Now, you don't believe in witches, do you?"

"Oh, I do!"

He laughed for her sake. But he felt like weeping- how many times had he held such a conversation with Lotte in his childhood?

"And you?"

"I didn't. Well, I am paying for that now. I suppose I should be thankful Javert's not a witch."

"I've heard things about him, though." She looked sheepish. "Strange things. I heard he lures children into his tent, chops them up, and feeds them to the living corpse. It's where their power comes from."

This last line came out lowly. Raoul shook his head with a soft chuckle- oh, the naivety of it all! Dear Anuaka was such a child. The thought of Javert and Erik taking part in cannibalism was horrific and hilarious all at once. But his chuckles died when he remembered Erik's collarbone... luring children into the tent. Curiosity got the better of him.

"And these so-called children, did you know them?" he asked.

"A few boys, lucky not to be eaten. He hasn't taken many from our camp, only those from other fairs. We'll never see them again either way."

"Then could it be possible that- that the children lied about Javert? Perhaps he did-" Raoul rephrased, "nothing at all to them?"

Anuaka shrugged. "I don't give it much thought. Father says it's not my business to pry."

"Well, it is good to listen to one's father."

She giggled and patted his hand, a friendly gesture with no more affection than a schoolgirl's fancy. But that had been the position that her brother found them in. Raoul remembered him- he was the gypsy he had run pass on his run for water a few days past.

The man could have been younger than Raoul, but he seemed older, muscles tan and face tight with a life of work. Perhaps Raoul would have found his face admirable in another time, if he wasn't spouting insults at him.

"Madman!" he shouted, breaking the pair apart. Anuaka cried out in protest, but he paid her no heed.

Raoul struggled to pull himself out of the other man's grasp. "Please, there has been a misunderstanding. I don't mean to cause-"

The next thing he registered was a heavy blow to the face. He was thrust on the ground, his assailant jumping on him and relentlessly pounding as Raoul rolled about. Raoul managed to force his knee upwards, catching the man in the crotch. Seeking the chance to escape, he crawled out from underneath the raging brother.

"Give him my apologies!" he said, Anuaka hurriedly nodding as she motioned for Raoul to leave.

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><p>"Well, Raoul, it looks like you've gotten in trouble again," Javert taunted, walking in circles around the young man.<p>

Raoul said nothing, arms crossed as he leaned against a tree. He had spent his energy hiding from Anuaka's family and was in no mood for Javert's scolding.

"They came to me, as if it was my damn fault!" Javert rounded on him with an abrupt slap to the already bruised face. Angrily, Raoul caught the wrist. He held tightly, fingers leaving bruises. Javert growled.

"Let go!" the other man barked, wrenching his hand away. "Remember what I said, prettyface? I'll get the little corpse for whatever trouble you cause me."

At that, Raoul involuntarily stiffened. Javert tugged at Raoul's collar with a sneer. "So saintly, hm, Raoul? You ought to thank me- told her father not to worry; you won't be causing any more trouble. Told him not to worry about anything a mad man does."

"Get your hands off me."

Javert leaned in closer, dragging his palms across Raoul's face, "I'll touch whatever I please. You're lucky I don't whip you like that freak. So stop seeing the girl- don't give you enough to do, and keep that pretty face for me only. It'd be tragic if we'd have to cut it up."

With that, Javert let go and left. All words and no fight, Raoul mused. Perhaps he was too good for his own good, perhaps it would be easier to simply leave the camp or to let Erik take whatever punishment he incurred. But leaving the gypsies meant an even lesser chance of finding a way back to his time. And Christine would surely disapprove if Raoul let a child suffer when it need not.

Instead, he crushed a twig with his foot, pretending it was Javert's neck.

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><p>Erik was lucid at last when Raoul entered their tent that night. The boy was sitting by the bench, scribbling in a crumbling notebook when he saw the sorry sight. Abandoning the task, he stood up and stumbled toward the man, stopping himself before any contact was initiated.<p>

"Monsieur, you're hurt!"

Raoul knew what he looked like. There was blackening eye and a series of heavy bruises along his cheeks and jawline. He was sure there was a fist-shaped mark on his chest, dark enough to be visible through his shirt. But it looked worse than he felt. Nothing could compare to how he felt these past days.

He sat down, holding a hand up to keep Erik at a bay. "I'm fine."

"What happened?"

Erik was by him, eyes staring with so much worry that if not for the name, Raoul would never equate him with Christine's Erik.

"I was trying to make friends. Well, one of the men did not take so kindly to my conversing with his sister. I'm sure he would still be out for my blood if not for..." he spat the next word out, "Javert."

"But- are you all right?"

"I will be. You know, I've never been in this kind of fight. It's simply barbaric."

Erik had scrambled away, digging among his belongings. The boy all but hopped back over with a wooden vial in his hand. He put it in Raoul's palm.

"I made these with different herbs. It should help the skin heal."

The contents smelled odd, but Raoul really did not care. He rubbed some over the worst of his bruises. "You learn how to do this yourself?"

"Yes, and the Madame teaches me sometimes. She's getting blind."

The Madame? "How old is she?"

"Very old. She rarely comes out now."

The Madame. The Madame!

"Erik, I'll waste no more time. I know you must think me mad, but please, I need to see this Madame."

"She should be asleep now, if her habits haven't changed."

"Then when!?"

Erik paused in thought. "Tomorrow, after the show." "Show?" "I've missed too many shows already. Tomorrow-"

"I don't want to hear it," Raoul interrupted.

Erik went back to his spot by the notebook. After a few minutes, Raoul sighed; there was no way he could possibly relax knowing he would be meeting the Madame the next evening. He crawled over to where Erik sat and crouched beside him.

"What are you writing?"

Erik eyed him with surprise, which gave way to suspicion, and then... shame? The boy looked down. "It's not important."

"I want to see."

He handed the book over and Raoul glimpsed the yellowing pages. Clearly, Erik had little to no ink left, but he could see the clear shapes of sketched buildings, expertly designed, save for a certain untrained crudeness about them. He flipped through- there were notes on the plants and herbs- he flipped- people, most of a woman, beautifully drawn, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. But no doubt, the drawings were alive, filled with hopes and dreams and observations that Raoul wasn't sure if he was ever meant to see.

"Why, these are amazing!" he said, "most children can only scribble!"

Erik could only stare, unable to respond, as if he had expected Raoul to say anything but what he did.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! And please review (like it? hate it? still willing to read on?)!<strong>

**Next time, Raoul reunites with the Amazing Madame but not in the way he wants, Javert continues to creep everyone out, and little!Erik might finally realize that good people like Raoul actually exist.**


	10. Chapter 10

**I know it's been a while. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. But I haven't given up (yet). Thank you to everyone who's reviewed- you're the main reason I force myself to put this story down on words. Thank you for that motivation!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>Erik had been true to his promise. Raoul was left to his own devices after the show, Javert disappearing into his tent with the day's earnings and their props removed once more from the public eye. His other chores had long since been completed- the polishing of Javert's shoes, mixing of the stew, gathering water, the cleansing of his own shirt, and all manner of demeaning work. As the gypsies prepared for supper within their respective groups, Raoul watched the sun set.<p>

It was a matter of time before dusk came. He dared not seek out Anuaka's company. Raoul also found he was not terribly hungry, his nerves frenzied with agitation. The Amazing Madame would surely be able to offer him some solution, if not an explanation. These thoughts twisting in his mind, Raoul settled for sitting in the shade of a tree as wary persons walked past him. He was still the madman.

"Monsieur?"

Erik was kneeling beside him, a bowl of Javert's gruel in his hands. A gust of evening wind blew over them. Raoul shivered.

"You said you would take me to the Madame tonight, boy."

"I brought your dinner out."

"Take me to her now."

Erik set the bowl on the ground and propped himself down beside Raoul, legs crossing, the former comte noting that the trousers were torn at the cuffs. "It's meal time. She will not want to see you if you barge in like this."

"Fine, fine, then we shall eat first!" Raoul snapped.

His very life was in the balance here! His Christine! Reality as he knew it, and he had to wait for the Madame to finish dinner! It was enough to make him shed tears of rage. He chanced a glance at Erik, hoping the boy would not see the frustration on his face. Erik's head was turned away, staring off in the other direction, arms wrapped protectively around himself.

"Monsieur, I'll go away if you wish it. I promise."

Perhaps it was the frustration peeking because then, Raoul felt a stab of guilt. Regardless of what the Madame did, what that monster in the Opera did, the boy before him had done nothing to him. Hadn't it been Raoul who chose to win the boy's choice? To take the friendship of a hurt child and break it so cruelly was simply an action that horrified him. He cared not for pride at the moment.

"No, no, Erik, I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you. My temper is hard to control."

And ears reddening, Raoul proceeded to eat the gruel. Erik said nothing, but Raoul supposed his words must have had some effect, seeing as the child did not leave him. Soon, the sky was dark.

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><p>The Madame's tent was not the garish showpiece Raoul remembered. It looked downright humble, actually. Erik led him past the barking dogs and several parked carts. The tent was moderate size, with no signs indicating its owner. It was not a part of the show.<p>

"The Madame is very old. It'd be best to speak in softer tones."

With that, they entered the tent, Erik calling for the old woman. Raoul was taken aback by the smell of incense(?) and burning herbs, jar upon jar of plants stacked up against one another. This seemed more like the abode of a medicine woman than a fortune teller. A feeling of dread was building within him.

"Come," a young voice said, its owner eyeing Erik with a look of apprehension.

It was a girl, dark hair trailing behind her in an intricate braid. She appeared younger than Anuaka, face still fresh with pubescence, but from the gait of her walk and height, Raoul suspected she was older than Erik. Fourteen at least, sixteen at most if he was wrong.

In her hand was a Tarot card. She pulled back another set of curtains, revealing a figure sitting against a mound of pillows. Erik said something to her and the reply came back in raspy, withered voice.

"She says you can come in, Monsieur."

Raoul took a step closer as the next words left Erik's mouth, "this is the Madame."

Upon seeing the Madame's face, Raoul instantly paled. He shook. No, no, no. His horrified gaze lingered on the old woman for what seemed like hours. Her hair was white, skin wrinkled, and blind eyes glassy in the candlelight. She did seem formidable and there was no doubt she was the old Madame. But she was not the Amazing Madame.

She was supposed to be his last hope, his only hope. What was he to do now? A terrified laugh threatened to escape his throat. He saw dots and colors blur over his vision. Raoul fell wordlessly.

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><p>The stench was what brought him back to this life. Raoul gagged, his vision coming back into place, a gnarled hand removing a rag of that terrible substance away from his nose. He moaned, head lolling on the cushion. A masked face came into view.<p>

"Monsieur? Are you all right?"

Where? Everything rushed back at him like a runaway train. It slammed into him and he moaned once more. "Erik?"

"Yes, are you all right?"

Then another set of voices, conversing in the language of the gypsies. Gypsies. The fair. Ah, yes, the fair. Raoul would have rather stayed in the dark. The old woman's hands touched his face, long nails close to leaving scrapes. "Young man," she said in broken French, "you faint."

He struggled to sit up, the girl from before watching with amusement as she handed the Madame what looked like a root. The old woman pulled open Raoul's mouth and stuck it in. It was surprisingly bitter. He tried to spit it out, but her grip was firm.

"It will help," the girl told him.

"Chew," Erik added.

The taste was terrible but when the old woman pulled the root out at last, Raoul was feeling less nauseous and as if his vision had cleared more. Still bleary, he grabbed the Madame's hand to the girl's protest.

"I need your help," he said, the words a weight on his tongue, "I'm not from here- the future, I come from the future. I have a wife. I need to go back."

The woman slapped his hand away and muttered in her own language.

"Erik, she thinks me mad," Raoul said, "tell her I'm not mad. Please, please, Erik, I beg you. I need her help. Tell her I was sent here by a gypsy woman, the Amazing Madame- she stabbed me and sang a song. I don't remember how to sing, please, it goes-" He hummed brokenly.

Erik must have tried to explain because he was soon in a heated conversation with the two females. Then Raoul felt the boy pulling him up. "Monsieur, we must leave now. The Madame needs time to think- she says this is black magic, strong black magic."

Still dizzy, the young man followed Erik as they made their hasty exit, the girl glaring at them all the while.

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><p>"She is the Madame's niece. I heard that her parents are dead and that the Madame took her on as her own apprentice. Sometimes I assist them," Erik said, in response to Raoul's question, the two of them standing at a distance from the center of the camp, where lovers were taking turns in gay merrymaking.<p>

It was too painful to watch, too similar to the memories of his Christine. Raoul shivered again. Damn the night air!

"So will they help me or not!?"

"I don't know." Erik looked apologetically at him. "Perhaps with some more persuasion, she will. You must convince her that you won't bring bad luck."

"That will be hard. My luck hasn't been the best as of late."

Another shiver. Raoul bit his tongue in anger. Damn it all.

"Monsieur, I need to retrieve something."

"What?"

"I'll return."

Erik turned and dashed toward the camp, becoming a small figure in the firelight. Raoul was in no mood to give chase. He called the boy's name and suspected Erik had not heard. He crossed his arms to protect himself from the cold- Philippe always said he caught cold easily. He eyed Erik's figure until he saw where it was headed.

Javert's tent. Perhaps he should give chase.

A taller shape came out to meet Erik, Javert no doubt. The two stood still- a conversation, perhaps, though the thought of holding one with that man disgusted Raoul to the core. The taller form abruptly struck at the smaller, and whatever object Javert held caught Erik directly in the head. The boy fell and it looked as if the man was going to strike him again.

Raoul was about to run towards them when he noticed that they were frozen in place once more. Javert disappeared into his tent and reappeared within seconds, a bundle in his hands. He dropped it on Erik and spat at him.

Without hesitation, Erik scrambled to his feet and ran. Raoul tried to gaze elsewhere, pretending he had not been staring at the display. When Erik returned, there was a brightness in his voice Raoul did not expect.

"Monsieur, this is Javert's spare coat!" the boy said, holding up the article in his hands, "it may be small for you, but it should help the chill."

Those yellow eyes were smiling. Raoul was nauseous at the prospect of wearing _anything_ of Javert's- the mere thought of his scent was too much. But the boy simply looked so eager for Raoul to try the coat on. Masking his disgust, Raoul took the coat- it was more a jacket, in his opinion- and put it over himself, the sleeves too short for comfort. But it was warm.

"Thank you," he said, "but how?"

He suspected Erik was beaming under the mask. "I told Javert you would catch a chill without more clothing. He tried to argue, but it was no use. I said I needed you for a new act in the show tomorrow and he was a like a dog without words."

There was an undeniable smugness in the boy's voice. But all Raoul could focus on was the crimson stain on Erik's collar. From the visible part of his head, Raoul could discern an ugly bruise lying beside a gash that was still trickling blood. He was warmer with the jacket, but Erik's shirt suddenly looked horribly thin, revealing too much of a skeletal build for comfort.

Raoul wanted to ask the child why.

Why injure himself procuring a coat for the madman? When his own body looked so cold? When he was still recovering from a number of other ailments? And why look so happy about it?

All because Raoul had extended the smallest of kindnesses toward him?

But he said nothing. Instead, Raoul placed a hand on the top of Erik's head. It was a slow, affectionate pat Philippe had once used on him. Erik's eyes looked as if they were watering.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! I hope that was worth the read and that those of you following still want to continue. Reviews are more than welcome and are the things that tell me to continue!<strong>

**Note: Raoul's own jacket is in his badly done laundry, so he'll have to settle for Javert's crappy one for the time being.**

**Next time: Raoul gets more spotlight in the show, Javert continues being Javert, and a fluffier interlude happens.**


	11. Chapter 11

**What's this? A new update? Yes it is! Again, apologies for how long it took. This one's a bit lighter than the rest.**

** Just a Guest: Thanks for being such a faithful reviewer! It's much appreciated. Don't worry- I don't plan on giving up on this; I'm just slow with this one haha. Raoul's been gone for a few weeks, yes. But I can't tell you how it's affecting his own timeline without giving away too much ;) Just wait and see. And great about Capaldi- he could be a fun doctor too (and the awesome cameo- looks like the new season's almost out so you can be excited for that)! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>According to Anuaka, the fair would have its run for a week and three days more before the tribes separated and took to the road again. Raoul was not looking forward to the prospect nor was he eager for the fair to continue. It was a sour deal for him either way. He took comfort in that the Madame seemed to know something, if only more than nothing, about his situation. Then he wasn't a mad man and there was still a chance to find his way home.<p>

But those thoughts did little to help his present situation. It took a good amount of willpower not to drop his jaw when Erik explained his plans for the day's show. Raoul had never had anything so ridiculous required of him. Erik's obvious excitement didn't help. _A child is a child._

But Raoul was a man. And the display that Javert had approved was not only silly, but outright humiliating. Raoul hadn't the heart to tell Erik his true feelings about the matter though. He would have to bear it stoically. Or as stoically as he could try.

"Mad man, get out there!" Javert's voice hissed.

The man had poked his head into the flap of Erik's tent and was harshly whispering orders at them. The hollers of the crowd made them hard to hear, but Raoul understood enough to know that he had to hurry lest the crowd resolve to throwing rocks again.

He pushed Erik's coffin out, Javert returning to his position as the barker. Per routine, the lid opened and Erik rose, the flowers announcing his arrival in song. Raoul swore it took forever. Erik and the flowers sang a few more tunes, sounding almost heavenly enough to make Raoul forget his worries.

It ended eventually. Erik strolled up to the crowd and spread his arms wide. A few onlookers backed away. He spoke.

"That man is a pariah!" One bony finger pointed at Raoul. The young man said nothing, uneasily meeting the curious gazes of their audience.

"Doesn't look like much to me!" someone shouted back.

Erik ignored the jeers. "He has been raised from the dead. The Living Corpse's one companion was once thought a mad man. He is not! Every word he speaks is true. He is a man with the thoughts of many, a fusion of souls, a being put together with the essence of the nether realms!"

"Bullshit!" The crowd was rallying again, closing in- but there was a morbid excitement in their eyes.

"Now, Monsieur, we do not wish to speak with you. Call your friends," Erik ordered.

Raoul struggled to remember what they practiced. He nodded before shouting a dramatic goodbye at the crowd. He swayed and fell, feigning a faint. After three seconds, he faked incoherent mutters. When Raoul sat up, his lips parted to mouth words but the voice was not his.

He felt as disoriented as he did during rehearsal. The voice no doubt came from him, but Raoul knew for a fact that it wasn't his own. He was whispering and Erik was shouting through him... in a woman's shrill voice.

"Where am I?" Raoul _said_, batting his lashes, "oh my, the dirt, the dirt!" His mouth pulled into a shriek, one that Erik inserted for him, a definite feminine shout, "I want to go home- oh dear me, I want to go home. Father would be so mad without his poppies. Oh, oh, you there-" Raoul pointed at a random man, one with a shaggy beard, "you're such a handsome gent. If I wasn't in this body, well, you know, what we could do-"

Half the crowd was stunned. The others were in roars of laughter. Erik gave him another cue and Raoul stiffened. When he spoke again, a harsh baritone spouted from his mouth. "Bout time I got some sunshine, en't too hard to let the ol' capn' out eh?"

Raoul pretended to marvel at his own limbs. "Ah, ah, when'd I get so young? There's been harsh weather at sea- this better not be some trick- eh? Who let the lot of you in 'ere? Take me for a sack o' shit, eh!?"

Members of the audience shouted responses, but Raoul had been instructed not to reply. His lips needed to match the voice. He crumpled and stood again, this time, the voice coming out wispy and accented.

"I didn't mean to," he said, "you'll believe me... won't you? I had to kill them. Tempting, tempting. I wore their hearts in my bed, the feel of the skin, ah, ah, the blood. The hand was not mine. I don't know what came over me, I don't-" He buried his face in his hands and shook, Erik feigning the eerie sobs for him.

When Raoul's hands fell away, he grinned. The voice this time was pompous and deep. "Weren't we in the desert, Brihand? Brihand, Brihand my man, where are you?"

And so it continued, Raoul stumbling over lines sometimes, but the voice always quick enough to match his lips. He acted as beggar boy, a clown, a soldier waiting for his sweetheart, a tragic king, a senile old woman, a fruit vendor, a hearty earl, and a bumbling composer. The crowd was on their side by the time Raoul became himself once more.

"Am I back? Am I back?" he shouted into the open, ignoring the shouts of disbelief, the questions and boos, the cheers and laughter. Coins were showered upon him.

He bent to help Javert retrieve the money, scavenging as much as he could into the bowl. The other man was shouting with his booming voice, announcing the grand unveiling of the Living Corpse's face. Raoul was pelted with more money and a bit of food, their audience excited from the last display and ready to view its finale.

Raoul didn't bother looking at the unmasking. The sudden silence was enough to tell him it had happened. Overall, it was a successful show. He would only have to wait for one of the savages to rally the crowd into throwing fruit or rocks or who knows what before the mood calmed.

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><p>Javert must have been pleased. He hadn't bothered Raoul for the rest of the day. The young man hoped it would last. He hadn't bothered doing his chores- the pig could handle it himself, but he was probably too busy counting the day's earnings. Raoul passed by Anuaka's tent with a friendly word before returning to Erik's tent. His interactions with her were sparse and quick for fear of her brother's wrath. To his surprise, he missed their longer conversations; Raoul de Chagny missing the company of a gypsy girl, a statement he never knew would be made.<p>

Erik was waiting for him with several fruits, apples and pears, of varying quality. The boy was chewing away at a red apple, the mask lifted just enough to allow his mouth room.

"Where did you get these?" Raoul asked.

"The candy apple booth. And someone came here trying to sell pears."

"You stole them?"

"Yes." Erik pointed a particularly plump apple. "I think you'll enjoy that one."

Raoul sat across from him, eyeing the fruits angrily. "Erik, I cannot eat these in good conscience! I may not have had the time to tell you before, but thievery, thievery is a lowlife's way."

"But I _am_ a lowlife." And with that, the boy continued eating, as happy as ever.

Raoul was flabbergasted. He was forced to remember that as intelligent as the boy seemed, he lacked direction. Erik was practically a street rat, for lack of better word. The apple did look juicy, though. _Damn it!_

Raoul grabbed the apple and savagely crunched in. It was obviously not washed and nothing like the fruits from his home. "Listen," he said, "just because I'm eating the fruit does not mean I approve. We are not lowlives, Erik. Javert is. Stealing is as far as one can sink. If you have no other method now, very well. But when the day comes that you no longer have to rob, don't."

The boy said nothing.

"Erik, look at me. Do you understand or not?"

Shoulders drooping, Erik met his eyes. "I do."

"Good." Raoul returned to the apple, realizing that this may have been the first time he ever lectured someone else. And it was Erik, no less! "Now hand me a pear, boy."

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><p>The fruits remained hidden and wrapped for another day. Raoul managed to sneak an apple and a pear into Anuaka's hands, receiving a kiss on the ear in return. He dispersed when her father came calling. She had supper to join and Raoul had his own activities to take care of. Wrapped in Javert's excuse of coat, he took to joining Erik in the forest.<p>

The sun was setting and thanks to the fruits, Raoul was not hungry for Javert's meals. Erik had told him of another way to win the Madame's favor, and at this point, Raoul had no reason to decline. The boy was waiting for him with a lantern.

"Monsieur, you should take this."

"It's a bit dim for two-"

"I can see just fine."

"All right. Well then, what is it I should find?"

"Herbal flowers. They're the Madame's favorite, but they're hard to find. I'm not sure if there are any in this area, but if we find some, she might stop calling you bad luck."

"Then let's start."

Raoul took the lantern and followed Erik, the boy constantly crouching on the ground and feeling the grass with his hands. They looked between trees and under rocks. Save for some roots Erik pocketed, there was nothing resembling flowers, let alone "herbal" flowers.

Eventually Raoul took to resting on a stump, trying to make out the forms of fireflies glowing in the night. "We're far from the camp and no one has come looking," he mused, "have you ever considered running away?"

The question had just occurred to him.

"A few times," Erik answered, crawling along the grass, "they were stupid ideas." He hesitated before adding, "I was going to the day we met- don't tell Javert."

_The day we met_. Raoul would never forget that experience. So he was the one who impeded the boy's escape. He didn't quite know what to feel about that.

"But in the end, it's better to stay," Erik continued, "I wouldn't know where to go... I have nowhere to go anyway."

Erik came to the other side of the stump and began his search again. Raoul sighed. Nowhere to go. He understood the sentiment exactly.

"It's the same for me," he said, "I suppose it's a good thing we found each other."

There was no reply, but Erik's scurrying told him the boy was still looking. Raoul raised his head to look at the high leaves. "Erik, I really am from the future. No one here believes me. I have no family here, no friends, no lovers. In this time, I'm all alone, just a sad excuse of a man they call mad."

"Monsieur, I..."

"You must believe me a bit to help. Just a bit is all I ask. That's all I need for an amount of hope. I need to go home. My wife is waiting."

Raoul felt a small weight at his side. Erik had joined him on the stump. "Monsieur, you never told me what happened to her," he said softly.

"She was a singer. I may not look it now, but I was the Vicomte de Chagny. It was foolish to court her, but I did. Against my brother's wishes, I did. It was difficult, I'll tell you. Because I was still a dim boy and she was already a woman. But innocent, lovely, the angel from my childhood." Raoul wondered if he should tell the whole story.

What did it matter? It probably all sounded crazy. He continued. "She loved her father, very much. When he died in her youth, he promised to send an angel of music. And by the time Christine, for that is her name, met me again, the angel had come. It was no angel, though. Just another man who loved her. Or rather, obsessed in my opinion. He was her singing coach. When she found out, all hell broke loose."

"And then?"

"Well, I came into the picture, and it was an obsessive war for her between the three of us. He tried to kill me, likely many times. And I would be lying if I said I hadn't fantasized about doing the same to him. He was far madder than I. When he stole her from the stage, right off the stage! I came looking with another man and our lives would have been forfeit if she hadn't promised to marry him."

"She married _him_?" Erik gasped.

Raoul held back a laugh. Curse Erik and that comment- the truth was the young man was already on the verge of tears. Laughter had no place at the moment. "No. I am unclear as to what happened. The act of sacrifice touched him, I believe, and he let us go. Christine and I left him, together and alive. But by then, my elder brother was dead. I fled to the north with her, but one tragedy followed another, and I had no choice but to return to France. That is how I became the Comte de Chagny. Well, that monster- man- who caused all this trouble had died in the meantime and my wife had promised to bury him."

"Did she?"

"No. Once she might have, but at the time it happened, her health was not what it once was. She couldn't bring herself to and this strange illness of the soul, we couldn't cure. I sought a gypsy for help and the Amazing Madame sent me here."

Raoul didn't wait for the boy to reply. There was more he needed to say. Perhaps if he said here and now, he would wake up in bed with Christine, safe and happy. Yes, it seemed worth a shot. If not, Erik would simply dismiss him as more insane.

"That other man lived beneath the opera house. He was a killer, an expert in torture, a mad man, but no doubt a genius. He had a wonderful voice. But his face was not a thing for the eyes." Raoul sucked in a breath. Here it went. "His name was Erik."

Raoul waited. And waited. Erik fell off the stump. Nothing else changed.

It changed nothing. Raoul felt a sudden surge of anger at the boy; after everything, Raoul had no influence on him. He would still grow to torture them and Raoul would still end up here.

"You- you should go back to the camp, Monsieur. I'll keep looking for the flower," Erik said, climbing to his feet and dusting himself, voice quick and anxious.

"Oh, quit it!" Raoul snapped, "it changes nothing. Let us return now before that pig of a man misses our company."

The boy stared at his own feet. "I'm sorry," was the creaky whisper that left him.

The anger changed into foolishness. Had Raoul so soon forgotten the sympathy he had for the child? That the qualms he had lay with the man named Erik and not the boy? How could he blame Erik for not changing if Raoul himself could not? The young man sighed.

"Oh, never mind. We can try again tomorrow. Come, Erik. I'm tired," he said, "I was possessed by several ghosts today after all."

That earned a stifled chuckle from the boy. Raoul stood up.

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><p>Javert's yelling was mostly directed at Raoul, but from the drunken look in the man's eyes, Raoul suspected he lacked the strength to do much more. The gruel was cold and Raoul was only pretending to scoop at it. The three of them sat huddled by a fire, Erik poking at his food and Javert noisily reminding them that every other show needed to be as successful.<p>

Javert swatted the back of Erik's head with a palm and the boy's masked face fell into his gruel. "You should've come up with this weeks ago- waiting until now. How much profit have we lost!?" The hand stayed on Erik's scalp, pressing his face into the bowl. Before Raoul could say anything, the hand shot up, taking Erik's head with it.

Javert let go of the boy and continued rambling. Erik wordlessly wiped at the mask with his sleeve.

"But you did good today, little corpse. Very good," Javert said, "Keep this up and you might get a cut."

Raoul set the gruel aside. It was hard to eat with Javert so nearby. The man didn't notice. It was then that Raoul noticed the object at his feet. Javert picked it up and shoved it into Erik's hand, the bowl of ruined gruel falling to the ground.

It was a broken accordion, from the looks of it. "Found this lying around today," Javert said, "a gift."

"Thank you," Erik muttered.

"Thank you, what?"

"Thank you, _master_."

"That's a good boy." Javert swatted the back of Erik's head again, in some strange attempt to be affectionate. He pulled the boy by the arm and laughed. "Maybe we ought to call you the devil's whore instead. Would bring more laughs."

"I doubt it," Raoul said. He had enough of Javert's disturbing comments. The young man strode over to him and pried Javert's hand away. The drunken man made no move to retaliate as Raoul led Erik away.

"You should retire, Javert. It'd do your head some good," Raoul told him.

All the other man did was laugh. "Not your whore, Raoul! It's the devil's whore, the devil's whore!"

Erik's hands squeezed the accordion so tightly the knuckles turned white. Raoul turned him away from Javert. "I got drunk once, Erik. I do hope I looked nothing like him."

The movement of the boy's shoulders told Raoul he had just brought forth another giggle.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading and as always, feel free to comment!<strong>

**Next time: Raoul tries to endear himself to the Madame.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Once more, thank you all for encouraging me to continue this! Every review means a lot, as do the favs, clicks, and follows. All of this gives me the drive to finish this, especially those wonderful reviews!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>In the coming weeks, Raoul reminded himself that no one knew who he was. He did not exist in this world and therefore, had no reputation to lose. With this thought in mind, he was able to carry his part in Erik's show with much ease. In a way, it made him remember the wayward days of his childhood- little plays that Christine would script for the two children. He had never admitted it to her nor anyone else, but he felt a certain thrill in acting. A thrill that was both strange and unseemly.<p>

No, the Vicomte de Chagny would never waste his time on such lower class pursuits. He would only settle for watching. How many plays had he memorized by heart? But here, he was no one. At least in those silly moments as the Living Corpse's companion, he was not Raoul de Chagny. He was not the man lost in time. He was not without Christine.

It was Javert's idea to keep the act fresh. Raoul would not perform daily. He would only be the possessed pariah three shows a week. For the rest of the time, he was the little corpse's mad, frail assistant.

And yet he was still stuck doing the most mundane of Javert's chores. Raoul pushed back the urge to vomit every time he was forced to wash a pair of the man's coarse trousers. These demeaning tasks were now routine and the young man had not the energy to even consider it demeaning. It was simply the way of things and his complaints became less directed at the chores and more at the showman.

At least Erik's ears were always open to the young man's complaints. Raoul conversed frequently with the boy, over simple topics such as Javert's body odor and the nature of herbs. The conversation about the opera ghost was not spoken of. When he was not accompanying the boy, Raoul found himself sneaking off to Anuaka. They would stargaze and talk of her life in the camp. She would fawn over his tales of the lavish de Chagny estate.

In the end, Raoul had two friends within the camp. It was no large number but it was enough to make his existence tolerable. It meant he had _someone_.

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><p>"I may need to shave soon," Raoul said, stroking his chin. His facial hair didn't grow easily, but it was not entirely nonexistent. And it was becoming more apparent with every moment he spent at the gypsy camp.<p>

Anuaka touched the prickles on his face. "I can barely see them."

"Well, compared to your father's, I am rather-"

"Feminine?"

"I meant to say clean," he said, feigning hurt. The girl laughed and fell against his arm.

It was a strange sensation stirring within him. Christine had never behaved so coarsely. This gypsy girl was of different material- her hair dark where Christine's was light, her skin tan where Christine's was milky, her manner sprightly where Christine's was tempered. It was not unpleasant, but Raoul felt in a sense... unfaithful. He did not know why.

"Anuaka," he said, finally broaching the subject, "are you betrothed?"

At that, she straightened, eyes widening and cheeks burning red. The girl began to shake her head before she changed her mind. "No- I don't know. Some are interested in me- but it's up to father or brother, I don't know."

_Could she be lying?_ From her tone, it sounded like there was someone already. If that was the case, his own worries subsided. Yes, there was nothing to worry about. Questions of faithfulness had no place here.

"When you do meet your husband, I should hope he treats you right."

She merely nodded. Raoul squeezed her hand in an attempt to comfort. Then, abruptly, he saw nothing but her eyes. His mouth tingled. She had thrust her face upwards and brushed her lips against his. It lasted for a second at most. But Raoul pulled away, as if burnt.

He heard her calling his name. _No No No!_

He staggered away, panic gripping at his chest. He stomped through the bushes and circled his way back Erik's tent. He could only hear his heart. Oh, wretched thing! She was but a child. And he-

He loved another. Then why did he not pull away sooner, why not see the signs of her affection sooner, why did he not feel disgusted? Violated? Because it was pleasant, soft, loving.

Christine's face flashed in his mind, their mouths pressing together in the snow by Apollo's Lyre. Pleasant, soft, loving.

Raoul entered the tent sobbing. He was not worthy of her! He was not worthy of anything! He failed to save her so many times, had perhaps lost her forever, and now he had basked in the affection of another? How dare he! How dare he!

"Monsieur," a soft voice said, "Monsieur, are you all right?"

Raoul choked back a cry and wiped his eyes. "Erik, I have made a terrible mistake."

"What?" the boy asked, panic evident.

"I kissed a girl," he said, "I claim to love my wife and yet I let another take my lips. Tell me, Erik, what kind of man does that make me?"

Raoul threw himself on the bench and lay on his back, one arm covering his eyes. Movement told him the boy had moved beside him. When Erik spoke, it was with a childish hesitance.

"But Monsieur, you- you were lonely. I wouldn't know how it feels to kiss a woman, but... surely it was a vulnerable moment for you. And when one is lonely... his heart takes anything thrown at it."

Of course. The boy probably hadn't even kissed his own mother. How would Raoul expect to gain anything from his advice? But at the moment, Raoul had no one to turn to. Most certainly not Anuaka.

"So is that what I've become, boy? A dog taking scraps, with no respect for his true love?"

"But if- if it doesn't feel the same, then you mustn't be as unfaithful as you think. The girl- did it feel like Madame de Chagny? Did it feel like... _Christine_?"

Her name sounded natural on Erik's lips, foreign and fitting. Raoul had heard that voice utter her name so many times. In another lifetime, it would have set Raoul on fury. It would conjure up a fierce protectiveness within here. But in this time, all the young man felt was peace. Hearing her name on another's lips filled him with a peaceful sort of joy, as if simply by hearing her name, Christine's existence was confirmed. It meant she still lived on, even if it was not with him.

"No," he said, "no it didn't."

"And did you enjoy it?"

"No." No, he didn't enjoy it one bit. Raoul did not hate it. It was not unpleasant. "It reminded me of her kisses. But it was not from her and that made all the difference."

Raoul removed the arm, feeling like the world had rolled off his shoulders. He had answered his own question.

"Monsieur, your nose is running."

"Never mind that, Erik. I have another problem now- I left Anuaka on rather awkward terms. What's the worst that could happen between us?"

"She could accuse you of unwelcome advances. Her family would demand punishment and you would be beaten within an inch of your life. Then the tribe would exile you."

Raoul groaned. Anuaka was not that spiteful, was she? And she knew he had a wife, didn't she? Did he ever tell her? Oh, it was too irritating! Raoul sat up and dried his face. Erik was sitting at his feet, tinkering with Javert's gift- the broken accordion.

The boy had been working on repairing it since than and it was on its way to decency. Erik played a discordant tune. Raoul winced for a good few moments before the melody smoothed. It was a comfortable, soothing sound that next entered his ears.

"I don't believe I've heard this one before- a folk song, perhaps?" he asked.

"No. Only something I made up," Erik replied, "music is a great comfort and that's something you are in much need of, Monsieur."

"Very true." Raoul closed his eyes and let the accordion lull him into a light doze.

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><p>The Madame had not been pleased at their last meeting. This, followed by subsequent failure to find Erik's so-called herbal flowers, prevented Raoul from daring to show his face around her again. They had settled for picking an assortment of flowers for a bouquet instead, per Raoul's suggestion. Erik had told him it was a moot point given the Madame's blindness. But he needed to make one good impression- just one would be enough for him to pour his plight out to her. She was human. She must have a heart!<p>

But awoken from his nap in the early night, his heart fresh and his mind determined, Raoul was adamant on seeing the Madame again despite Erik's warnings. So he was once again with Erik at the entrance of her tent, the rough bouquet in his hands.

The niece admitted them, the scowl never leaving her face. Raoul resisted the urge to glare back. The hostility was uncalled for. Erik knelt by the Madame and spoke in her tongue. She touched his bony hands before beckoning in Raoul's direction.

"You can give her the flowers," Erik told him.

Raoul did so and knelt by the boy, unsure how to proceed from this point.

"She says you might not be such terrible luck if you managed to make Javert so much money."

"Then will she help me?"

The Madame interrupted with her own spew of words and gestures. Erik replied before translating for Raoul. "She thanks you for the gift, but has no desire to work with the occult."

"I'm not an occult being!"

The Madame spoke in French this time. "Out. Erik out."

"We can't! I need a way back- she's the only one who can help me!" he spouted. Raoul grabbed the old woman's hand, to her shock. "Please- please you must help me. I have no other means! I'll do anything, Madame- _anything_!"

"You're not welcome here!" the niece snapped.

Erik came to his defense, matching the Madame word for word in whatever argument they were having. The Madame waved them off. At Erik's insisting gaze, Raoul kept his mouth shut. The two left the tent with the niece staring smugly behind them.

When the tent was long behind them, Raoul grabbed the boy by the shoulders. "Well, Erik, what do I do now?"

"You need to prove you're not a victim of the occult. She won't help you if she thinks it will bring bad luck upon her family."

"Well, that's just dandy!"

"All you need to to is prove that your presence brings more good than harm. We're already looking for the flowers. You've made our show more successful than it ever was. Next time the Madame is called to help someone, I suggest you show up and help. It might change her mind."

"That's easier said than done."

"I'll help you, Monsieur, fear not."

Erik was giving him that look again. The boy's eyes were bright and Raoul suspected a smile behind the mask. It was a look that Erik directed at him with increasing frequency. And Raoul was not opposed to it.

"Well, there happens to be another problem I'll need you for."

The young man sighed before finishing his request. "I have to apologize to Anuaka. I need you to rehearse with me- I shall play the part of Raoul de Chagny and you need to be the girl. Understood?"

What Raoul got in response was badly muffled laughter. In retaliation, he poked the boy in the head.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviews are always welcome! Reviews help Raoul please the Madame.<strong>

**Next time: Raoul apologizes to Anuaka, the gypsies hit the road, and something very very major happens (and I will apologize in advance)**

** Just a Guest: T**hanks for the great comments again! Raoul was grasping at straws so he figured that maybe he could guilt Erik into changing the future. But it's not that easy, haha. Erik's bothered by the story but common sense tells him not to dwell too long on it. Let's just say that it's going to bite them both in the butts next time. Glad you liked Raoul's act! The terrifying, creepy talents are my favorite Erik skills too ;)

Well, Matt Smith did have a complete arc and was at peace with himself so maybe that was why his regeneration felt so sudden. Or maybe it's because you love him so much you don't want to see him go. He'll always be 11 though. And just wait and see about Capaldi- he could be a really cool doctor! Trailers don't do the show justice sometimes.

** Curlycupgumweed: **Thanks for the review! I'm glad you like the "genre" and that you found the character treatments unbiased (that's something I hope I succeeded at!). Sorry about the lack of detail- my fanfics tend to fall into the beige prose category because I'm impatient and like to cut to the point. But I know what you mean and I'll try to put more necessary details in the future :) And I'm very pleased to see that you're enjoying the friendship between Raoul and Erik (and that it's hurting you in the good way!).

** Marzia: **Thanks for the review! I'm flattered that you said what you said and I hope you'll like the next chapters just as much.


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks for the reviews and support! Every word motivates me to move the story along.**

**Like I've said last time, something major happens in this chapter. Rest assured- I had this planned from the very start, way back in 2011. I didn't just throw it in for the heck of it. I'd never do something like that with an issue like this.**

**Warning: There is material here that might make some of you uncomfortable. Nothing happens above a T level, but the implications will be obvious. There's noncon involved. So for those of you who don't wish to see it but still want to follow this story, I've labeled it XXX right before the part starts. When you reach XXX, you can skip right to my A/N.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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><p>Raoul had hoped to catch Anuaka alone the following day, but fate seemed to have other plans. On the fair's last day, they were crowded to the brim and Raoul found himself putting on so many shows that his mouth began to ache. Several of the booths had already closed up, but Javert would never pass on an opportunity to make more riches.<p>

The very last show of the day had been particularly painful. There had been a rude gentleman among the brutes, dressed sharply and speaking with an air that conveyed pure arrogance.

"This is a fraud's show!" he shouted.

Raoul and the Living Corpse had ignored the man's comments, but throughout the act, the bastard had been speaking. "If a man really is as troubled as that individual, he should consult an exorcist. And scientifically speaking, it's plausible for the source of his voices to come from elsewhere-"

"Why don't ye shut up?" Raoul mouthed, a scratchy voice coming to his aid. The crowd had laughed even harder.

By the time Erik presented his face, the mouthy fellow was shaking his head. Raoul paid an irrational amount of attention to this heckler- he didn't look like someone who frequented these shows for fun; he seemed to be here for the sole reason of agitating the performers!

"It's impossible to animate life after death! What I see is a mutation as a result of-"

Javert threw a rock at the man by then and the latter had fled, flustered, some of the audience clapping him on the back, others too busy laughing to notice.

"Good riddance!" Erik's lilies sang. Raoul could not help but agree.

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><p>Raoul didn't have the chance to clear up the issue with Anuaka the next day either. She had been surrounded by family, too busy preparing for travel to heed him. And Raoul's more bashful side told him it was for the best, though the issue hung unpleasantly at the front of his mind. The gypsies were packing at last, ready to move their horses and caravans by mid-afternoon.<p>

The morning was filled with the sounds of shouting, bargaining, and the clitter clatter of pots and bowls. Everything was dismantled and bound. Clothes, barrels, wood, and the like disappeared. It was strange for the young man to observe. As a child, he had sometimes wondered what happened when these nomads took to the road. It was no magical process. It was technical and disappointingly mundane.

And as luck would have it, it was also rather tiring. Raoul found himself plagued with sweaty pits as he helped move the drawers and props into Javert's compartment, the man at his heels. Javert had a battered table that was heavier than Raoul thought. For his part, Erik had been tasked with collecting their personal supply of firewood. The boy was expected to take care of his own items.

Raoul suspected that the job he was currently handling belonged to Erik. Given the fact that Raoul was taller and significantly stronger, he could not fault Javert for delegating the task to him. That did not stop him from scowling every time the man looked his way.

Javert had two vans and the man claimed they were hard-earned. And yet to Raoul's disgust, the three of them would be in the same one, a single room attached to wheels, wooden and aged. The linked compartment seemed to be something else altogether, what with the curtain draped over its awkward shape.

Erik's belongings- his personal sacks, the bundle of blankets, the one bench, the lantern, and the small drawer- lay huddled in one corner. The rest of the compartment was filled with various pots and bowls, drawers and chests that Raoul had moved, Javert's table, spare lanterns, a set of chairs, and sack upon sack of Javert's belongings. The man apparently had a miniature closet as well.

There was just enough room left for the three of them to sleep outstretched. There was not much room for pacing. Raoul noted that none of the objects belonged to him. Despite his stay with the fair, he was still an outsider, one that simply did not belong. He held onto his few items- shirts that had once belonged to Anuaka's father, Javert's undersized coat, and the set of clothes that the former comte had arrived in- and dropped them with Erik's pile.

When Erik returned with an armful of wood, the caravan had started to move.

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><p>"Monsieur, you look ill," Erik remarked, back pressed against a sack, journal in hand. He may have been sketching in it, but Raoul did not care to find out.<p>

"Do I?" Raoul said as the compartment was jolted yet again by rocky ground.

"Can't even handle this bit of movement," Javert said with a snicker, unscrewing his canteen. Raoul shot him a glare.

The floor rose as their compartment moved past another mound in the caravan's path. Raoul had borne with it for an hour and it was taking its toll. Even the most fickle of horses had never provided this uncomfortable a ride! He found himself yearning for the sophistication of a carriage. They were moving in a fashion far too similar to the motion of a bad wave.

He had been uncomfortable with it in the navy and he was uncomfortable with it now. With the next jolt, Raoul fell on all fours, retching the few contents of his stomach out. He stared in disbelief at the greenish puke, bits of vomit still dribbling down his chin. He expected Javert to roar with laughter.

Instead, the man kicked Raoul none too gently in the side. He doubled over as Javert cried out in rage, "You're cleaning that up, madman!"

With that, the shorter man returned to his spot, downing the remains of the canteen- Raoul was sure it was some form of alcohol, perhaps gin. Perhaps he needed a shot as well. Raoul lay moaning on the floor. He had forgotten the pains of motion sickness.

Erik knelt beside him, dabbing at the young man's chin with a rag. "Monsieur, the Madame taught me how to fix this."

"The Madame can go to hell," Raoul hissed. He needed to wash out his mouth- the remains of vomit still lingered.

Erik left for the other side of the shaky van and when he returned, the boy was holding up a vial for Raoul to sniff. It had a comforting aroma to it, a sort of mint that relaxed the man's nerves. "Monsieur, do you want a drink?"

"Plenty." With the boy's help, Raoul pulled himself into a sitting position.

"Don't touch my supply," Javert ordered, watching Raoul's pain with an infuriating amusement in his eyes.

When Erik returned with a wine sack of fresh water, Raoul took it gratefully. Seeing as there was no one to see him but Javert and Erik, the young man used the first bit of water to rinse his mouth. The contents spilled unceremoniously on the floor. The compartment would stink up and they would all suffer.

"Erik... h- how long before we stop?"

"We have until nightfall so that should be-"

"Three hours!" Javert called.

Raoul held his head in his hands, trying to bite back the urge to curse at the man. Erik was crawling beside him, trying his best to clean the vile mess with his dirtied rag. Raoul shut his eyes once more, trying to imagine himself in a carriage with Christine instead. And the streets would be smooth for the horses.

Raoul had swallowed his own bile two more times before the caravan finally found a decent path. When that time had come, he had requested a mirror from Erik. The boy scrambled to get him one while Javert snored beside them, his body odor more than apparent in their cramped area. Though that was nothing compared to what Raoul had done to the floor.

"Here, Monsieur."

"I really do look ill."

His eyes looked half-shut and his hair was disheveled. That, combined with his greenish pallor, made him look like one of the ghosts from their show.

* * *

><p>The color had returned to Raoul's face by nightfall. If the mirror was to be believed, he didn't look like a dying man anymore. He just appeared a bit worse for wear. Though still nauseous, the young man was well enough to walk and talk as any healthy individual.<p>

According to Erik, they would stop for the night and then pick up travel in the morning. They were following a path toward the Spanish border and though Raoul did not comment on the matter, he was not looking forward to leaving France. As if his predicament was not foreign enough as it was.

After the tents had been set up, Raoul had slipped away from Javert's company. The structure of the temporary camp was different than he remembered, but he suspected the overall arrangement of each group would be at the same distance from one another, their own ostracized tents notwithstanding. To his relief and anxiety, the young man found Anuaka leaving her friends by a fire.

She appeared unaffected from their last meetup. Raoul made sure there were no eyes on them when Anuaka approached. He crouched behind a set of bushes, waiting for the right moment. When she was within reach, he grabbed her wrist. She was about to yelp before she caught sight of his frantic face. With his free hand, Raoul pleaded with her to say nothing.

"Raoul?" she cried, "what do you want!?"

"Please, I had been trying to contact you since the day before. My dear friend, please hear me out," he begged, motioning for her to join him by the bushes.

She regarded him coldly before nodding. Raoul tried to express his gratitude but she would not deign to reply.

"We should walk ahead," she told him briskly.

When they were out of earshot from the camp, she leaned against a tree, arms crossed and face sullen. Raoul stood before her, unsure where to put his own hands. He settled for keeping them by his sides.

"What happened that night- I- I'm truly, truly sorry."

"You told me you were a comte," she said, water in her eyes, "maybe I wasn't good enough for you."

"Anuaka, no! You are more than good enough. Beautiful, strong, charming, practical. It has nothing to do with that," Raoul said. The guilt stung- once upon a time, he would have laughed at the idea of kissing a gypsy, let alone apologizing to one. But he was not so arrogant anymore. In the end, they were all people, were they not?

"I valued your friendship. Have you any idea how miserable I was in this camp?" he said, "you helped me through so much with your company and your kindness. I do love you, Anuaka, but in this manner."

He took her hands in his own. "But I love another. I have a wife awaiting my return and she has already taken my heart."

"But you've taken mine," she muttered. She looked so much like Christine in that moment, eyes downcast, vulnerable despite the strong stance.

"I'm sorry. It was never my intention. You were the first not to fear the mad man. You believed in me, you helped me... please, look at me, Anuaka, and say you'll forgive me. I couldn't bear it if you did not."

She said nothing. He wanted nothing more than to hug the poor girl then. But such an act would be far too cruel.

"No, I have no right to make demands. If you would forgive me? I understand if you don't. Take to hating me if it ebbs the pain. Just know that I had never wanted to ruin our friendship, I had never meant to deceive you, and that I shall never forget your kindness."

He expected no reply. Raoul made to turn away when Anuaka flung herself at him, arms wrapped around his neck. "I forgive you," she whispered into his ear. When they broke apart, it was with shy smiles on both their faces.

"Oh, Raoul," she said, "you were like a prince to me, from a fairy tale."

"I'm no prince, rest assured," he said. He knew that now.

"But your wife, how are you getting back to her? Javert has been so cruel to you. And you're always stuck with the living corpse. It must be so terrible, Raoul!"

Raoul sighed. He wrapped an arm around his friend's shoulder. "I'm still working on that problem. Javert is a terrible man and however much I disagree with him, he's still merely making a living. And it's not so terrible being with the living corpse- _Erik_ is more human than one might think."

He paused to consider that. Had he just admitted to understanding Javert and Erik? Anuaka seemed surprised at the statements so Raoul added, "the boy is my friend. And in place of fear, I'd rather you hold sympathy."

"Raoul, you mean what you say? You've seen his acts for yourself. You know about the devil's voice- why, I've heard that he's an apprentice from hell itself."

Raoul only chuckled. "Now, if any of that were true, he wouldn't be with the lot of us, would he? Tell me, Anuaka, do you honestly believe all that from the bottom of your heart?"

"I... I guess not."

"Come, let's look at the sky, like we used to."

* * *

><p>It was only after returning the tents and seeing Anuaka off that it dawned on Raoul. For the first time, he had defended Erik's reputation- that thought was surreal. He had befriended his worst rival and defended him despite no obligation to. And even more unsettling was the realization that he wouldn't mind doing it again.<p>

But he was rather elated at having earned Anuaka's friendship once more. Raoul felt childishly eager to tell Erik the news. They had rehearsed the scene together after all- it was the reason why the words flowed so smoothly from the young man's mouth. Yes, he would have to let the boy know of his success in the matter. Now the guilt on his conscience was washed away.

But there was no one in Erik's tent when Raoul arrived. The lantern was lit at least. It sat on the mound of blankets that Raoul had planned to sleep on, and besides it, was a bowl of cold gruel. Save for a few of Erik's sacks, the tent was empty and Raoul admitted that he missed the bench, one of the larger items left in the compartment. Raoul sat and lifted his unappetizing dinner, but one had to eat and he was used to its taste by now.

What he almost failed to notice was the small note crinkled by the bowl. He lifted it and spread it out, the edges torn and jagged. The material was familiar- it was a page from the boy's journal. His handwriting was utterly atrocious. Raoul had to read the thing twice to understand what Erik was trying to tell him.

_Monsieur, we saved this bowl for you. Javert's gone to exchange drinks. I might have seen the flower you need in the forest. You will know if I am correct or not when I return. I'll try to end the task before midnight. Erik-_

Raoul ate his supper hastily. He couldn't help but feel a sense of expectation- this may be the final step to the Madame's heart. She would surely aid him if Erik was successful. Raoul supposed he would have to find some way to thank the boy if that were the case. But with the means he had now, he couldn't think of any method. He snorted at the idea of buying candy. He had no money and that seemed too dumb a payment to consider.

No, he shouldn't be thinking in terms of payment. Raoul, somehow, had won the boy's devotion.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed an object poking out of one of the sacks. Setting the bowl down, Raoul made his way towards it and pulled it out. It was Erik's crinkled journal. Would it be violating the boy's trust if he looked? But Raoul genuinely admired the child's work within it. Perhaps there would be some drawing inside of interest.

And if Erik's reaction would be anything like last time, the boy was not opposed to Raoul's attention.

He flipped it open, looking over the old sketches and notes once more. The beautiful woman came up a good few times. There was another, plainer woman, but both had been traced over with love. Erik had added a few new ones, most of various gypsies within the camp, doing their everyday routine. There was one of the Madame. Another of the night flowering herb. And then... a sketch of Raoul.

It was exquisitely detailed. It was as if he was staring into a mirror. There was a small smile on the picture's lips, barely there and yet so obvious. The eyes were bright and sad, a reflection of some innate sorrow. It lacked the look of an aristocrat, but Raoul admitted that without a doubt, Erik had made him _beautiful._

He flipped the page. Erik had drawn more of his face. There was one where Raoul laughed, one where he frowned, one with his eyes flashing in anger, one with a playful smile, one with the look of a flustered man. Every expression that Raoul had shown him, Erik had attempted to duplicate. And the last page was the back of a young boy holding a scarf. His light hair blew in the wind and beside him was the outline of a girl. They were holding hands.

Raoul put the journal back where it belonged, not knowing quite what to feel. It seemed that in the boy's eyes, Raoul was worthy of this much attention and the story of Christine Daae was sacred.

If Erik valued Raoul so much, then why was he still stuck in this time? Raoul nervously rubbed his hands together. Something did not sit right with this. Had his influence been the very thing that resulted in this time loop? Or was something else happening that he couldn't understand? Oh, curse the Amazing Madame!

Judging by the amount of time that passed from his meeting with Anuaka, Raoul suspected it was nearing midnight. He needed to take his mind off the strange questions burrowing at him. Perhaps all he needed to do was await the flower, perhaps he was over-thinking the situation. Yes, that must have been it.

_Curse it. I can't wait like this. _

The young man set the journal back where it belonged. Nervous, he grabbed the lantern and left the tent, the flaps fluttering behind him. The temperature had dropped even more and Raoul wondered if he should return for the jacket. Then again, he didn't plan to stay out long- merely to see if the boy had come back.

There was little noise in the camp and even fewer people walking about. It was a rather lonely scene overall. The lantern bobbed with his movements. Raoul wandered in the direction of Javert's lit tent, planning to make a turn and head into the forest. The light of the lantern, however, fell on a crumpled object just as Raoul prepared to turn.

The young man approached it, bringing the light closer to make out its shape. It looked to be a flower of sorts, the petals purple and white, though it was hard to discern given its sorry state. Instinct told him to pocket it, lest the pathetic thing be crushed even more. There was always the possibility that he'd ruin it further, but Raoul saw no reason to let it be stepped on in the dark.

As Raoul bent to pick it up, the light fell on another object. He squinted- it was flatter, darker, almost- Raoul touched it. His head felt light. Trying to keep calm, he brought the lantern closer. There were several stains on the grass, uneven drops of crimson that traced a path ahead. Had there been a murder?

Against better judgement, Raoul followed the droplets. They led to a shattered bottle, bits of glass strewn in various places, red on their edges. Only then did he realize where this detective work had taken him. Javert's tent was only a few steps away, muffled noises(?) emitting from the inside.

His chest tightened- could the flower in his pocket be the herb? Did Erik not say Javert had gone to harvest more drinks? Raoul's mind put the pieces together, but staring at the glass and the blood, the young man refused to acknowledge such conclusions just yet. _Perhaps the brute cut himself._ But Javert's dubious character disconcerted him; for all he knew, the man could have gotten into a brawl with a gypsy and murdered the poor fellow.

Tensing, Raoul strained to hear the noises- they indeed existed. And he could not, in good conscience, ignore them.

**XXX**

He stormed towards the tent, heart racing, and smacked the flaps aside. Raoul stood at the entrance, mouth agape, the lantern still in his whitening knuckles.

He was met with the sight of Javert's behind, the trousers down, their owner kneeling and groaning over another figure. Raoul walked towards them, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Erik was lying below the man, letting out pained gasps, his mask pulled up to reveal a bleeding mouth, arms pinned to the ground by Javert's sweating hands. There was blood about the boy, pooling around one smashed leg and more leaking around his-

Raoul thought of nothing. He saw nothing in that instant. There was only a blinding sense of anger, rage.

He smashed the lantern over Javert's head, the glass breaking and falling, the flame inside bursting. The man fell with a lurch, landing on his side. Blood seeped onto the ground from his ruined scalp.

Raoul was left standing, willing his shaking limbs not to reach for the broken lantern and slam it over Javert's head again. Again and again until there was nothing left but a rotting broken skull. He could only hear two things, the pounding of the blood in his ears and the boy's whimpers.

* * *

><p><strong>(For those of you who skipped XXX: Raoul walked in on Javert raping an injured Erik. He then hit Javert in the head with the lantern, knocking him out. The chapter ends with our hero trying to quell his murderous impulses.)<strong>

**Again, I apologize for the material in XXX. Thank you for reading this chapter and I hope that you'll be willing to continue reading, but if you don't, that's perfectly fine. I promise that things will take an uphill turn eventually. We've just reached the lowest pit. I really do plan on treating the issue with the sensitivity it deserves and it's not going to be an easy thing for Raoul (and definitely Erik) to deal with. This is also the last you'll see of Javert for a long, possibly indefinite time.**

**Next time: Raoul makes a snap decision. Erik is in very bad shape.**


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